


make a mighty sound

by solacefruit



Category: Warriors - Erin Hunter
Genre: (yes cypress is jake), Beta Read, Gen, M/M, as always some tinkering of names and such
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23574445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solacefruit/pseuds/solacefruit
Summary: “You ask a lot of questions, Tallpaw,” said Elmpaw. He seemed amused.Tallpaw twitched his tail self-consciously. “I want to know things too,” he said, trying not to sound petulant. “How are you supposed to learn anything without asking?”To his surprise, Elmpaw was purring.“You know, you could try listening for a change,” he said. “You’ve got the ears for it.”
Relationships: Jake/Talltail (Warriors)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 181





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _I belong to no-one: a song without an album,_   
>  _long-forgotten maxim spoken to the sea_

Tallpaw was sitting still, observing butterflies. The pressing heat of the greenleaf afternoon made him feel sleepy and he had been blinking heavily for some time when the first butterfly landed on a stem only a few lengths away. Before he had time to pounce at it, another had fluttered past, stirring the air near his whiskers; and then it was followed by several more, all circling in dizzying, hesitant loops around the pink, drooping flowers of a nearby bilberry.

He knew if he leapt at them now, they would scatter, so he tucked his paws under his long tail, and simply watched. The butterflies were blue, the same as the sky above, except for the undersides of their wings, which were silvery and spotted; it was interesting, how they looked like entirely different insects from below and from above, as if whatever made them hadn’t been able to choose one way or the other. 

Tallpaw could understand that. His fur was as black as it was white—or perhaps as white as it was black—which meant that half of him gleamed starkly in the moonlight and the other half stood out, dark as shadow, under the sun. Shrewpaw yesterday had told him it’d mean he’d never catch anything: a bird would see his dark fur against the earth and fly away, a rabbit would see the shine of white in the night and bolt. 

Tallpaw had tried to say that, since he had only been an apprentice for a few days, it wasn’t unreasonable that he hadn’t caught anything yet--but Shrewpaw had only taunted him more. 

_Sounds like you’re making excuses_ , he’d said. 

_I don’t have to_ , Tallpaw had replied, trying to sound more confident than he felt. _I’ll catch something soon_.

 _Probably fleas_ , scoffed Shrewpaw. _Or a disease. Maybe both!_

Tallpaw had flattened his ears and glowered, but Shrewpaw didn’t seem to care. 

_Oh, I know_ , he’d said. _You can go out and dig for worms._ They _won’t see you coming!_

Tallpaw sighed. He didn’t know what he’d done to make Shrewpaw dislike him so much; it seemed to be enough just to be there. So far, every attempt to befriend him as kittens had resulted in an insult or, more than once, a cuff around the ear, and Tallpaw was tired of trying. 

One of the butterflies fluttered close, as if mistaking Tallpaw for a flower. 

_Imagine digging in the dirt for worms_ , he thought with a curl of his lip, watching the butterfly consider landing on his ear tip. He flicked his ear and sent it gently spiralling back to the bilberry branches. _I’d rather fly like you, if I could._

Only then did he realise that Sandnose was talking to him. 

“— _unbelievable_ ,” he was saying. “Tallpaw! You haven’t been listening to anything I’ve said, have you?”

Tallpaw glanced at Sandnose, guilt squirming in his stomach.

“I, uh,” he said. “I caught some of it…”

“Well?” said his father. “What did I just say?”

Tallpaw wanted to sink into the earth and out of sight. “You were saying… that moles are around all of the time?” he hazarded. Sandnose had said something like that, but Tallpaw wasn’t sure how long ago that had been.

Judging from the unimpressed set of Sandnose’s ears, it wasn’t recently. 

“I _said_ that moles can be active at any time of the day or night, unlike rabbits or mice,” said Sandnose, “and you can find them in any season. That’s what makes them such a valuable source of prey for us. But clearly it’s more important to look at butterflies than learn how to look after your clan.” 

He pounced at the shrub, sending the cloud of butterflies swirling away from them both and across the moor. 

Tallpaw miserably watched them fly, until the last flicker of blue was gone. 

“What else did I say?” said Sandnose. His scowl was as unforgiving as stone. 

Tallpaw gave an uncertain little shrug of his shoulders. “You have to dig a hole…” he said, barely able to speak more than a whisper. 

Sandnose looked away from him. 

“Get up,” he said. “We’re going back to camp. I’m not wasting more time today.”

Tallpaw trailed after Sandnose as the powerful warrior prowled resolutely past the occasional jagged stone piles of the moor and the tall clumps of bristle bent, their soft flumes of yellow flowers swaying in the breeze. The pace made Tallpaw’s paws ache, but he didn’t dare complain: he was in enough trouble as it was, and the sooner they got to camp, the sooner it could all be over and he’d be allowed to go sit alone for a while. 

The scent of Windclan hit the roof of Tallpaw’s mouth, carried on the breeze as he and Sandnose padded up the slope to the upper heath. It wouldn’t be far now. 

Tallpaw kept his head low, tail almost dragging on the ground as they finally approached the campsite. Part of him hoped that, if he was quiet enough, Sandnose would somehow forget he was there and he could slink away without a talking-to—but he knew there was no chance of that. 

Sandnose stopped some way from the campsite entrance and looked down at Tallpaw. 

“You’ve disappointed me,” he said. “This is the second outing—of _two_ outings—that you’ve spoiled with nonsense, Tallpaw. First it was that lizard, now it’s butterflies. What I’m telling you _matters_ , do you realise that? I am trying to teach you important skills and you can’t be bothered to pay attention. How do you think I feel about that?”

Tallpaw winced. “Bad,” he guessed. 

“I’m insulted,” said Sandnose. “The disrespect you’re showing me is unacceptable. I am your father, I am a warrior, _and_ I am one of the best mole-hunters in the clan, and if you acted like this to any other warrior, you would deserve the clawful you’d get.”

Tallpaw’s spine fur tried to bristle in fear and he did what he could to force it to stay flat. Thankfully, the breeze blew at the same moment, ruffling his pelt, hiding his worry; Sandnose’s paws were broad and heavy, and Tallpaw didn’t want to face his claws. 

Sandnose’s ginger pelt rippled in the breeze as well. It was blowing in from the far away farmland, which meant it was what the clan called the pale wind: the merciful wind. Sandnose turned to face it, letting it stream over his face and whiskers, eyes closed. Then he sighed and turned back to Tallpaw. 

“Now, I won’t do that,” he said. “This time. But by Starclan, if I hear you behaving like this for anyone else…”

“I won’t,” said Tallpaw at once. He could sense an opportunity to escape coming up. “I promise, next time I’ll be all ears.”

Sandnose looked at him, doubtful but also—Tallpaw thought—maybe a little amused. 

“All right,” said Sandnose. “Go then.”

 _Thank you_ , thought Tallpaw, scrabbling away into the camp before Sandnose could change his mind. 

He loped across the sandy hollow, paw pads feeling cracked and tender. He wanted to go find somewhere away from everyone where he could sleep in the sun, let it soak into his fur and bones and make him feel better, but a shout made him stop and turn.

“Tallpaw!” 

Elmpaw was sitting by himself at the edge of the hollow and nodded for Tallpaw to join him. 

He padded over, but before he could speak, Elmpaw tilted his head to the side, scrutinising him. 

“You’re limping,” he said. 

“Am I?” Tallpaw flopped down beside his friend. “It makes sense. My paws hurt a lot. Especially this one.” He wiggled it. 

“Let me see.” Elmpaw leaned over. “There’s a thorn in here. A gorse thorn, I think. Did you know that?”

Tallpaw dropped his head on the sand, giving up. “That’s just what I needed today,” he said with a groan. “A reason to go see Hawkheart.” 

“I take it things did _not_ go well with Sandnose,” said Elmpaw with delicacy. He sniffed at the embedded thorn. 

“They could have gone worse, I suppose,” said Tallpaw. “Foxes exist. I could have been mauled by a fox. Or I could have stepped on an adder.” 

“Hm,” said Elmpaw. “What was it this time?”

“The same as always. Something about moles.” 

“If you learned what he was trying to teach you, he’d probably stop trying to teach you,” said Elmpaw, in what seemed to be a far too reasonable tone of voice. Tallpaw flattened his ears. 

“It’s not that I’m not trying,” he said. “That’s the problem. I try really hard. I just get… distracted.” 

Elmpaw made a sympathetic noise, still eyeing off Tallpaw’s injured paw. Now that Elmpaw had pointed it out, Tallpaw was sure he could feel the sharpness of the thorn; the cruel point of it where it had torn his flesh. He knew he couldn’t leave it in forever, but he couldn’t bring himself to get up again just yet. 

“I don’t know why I can’t focus,” said Tallpaw. “Dig holes, get moles. It’s _that_ easy.” 

“Well, it’s not,” said Elmpaw. “If it was, everyone could do it without having to train. You’ll get it, though. You’re his son and he thinks you’re going to have the talent.” 

Tallpaw didn’t want to disagree, so he said nothing. Sandnose definitely believed that Tallpaw could learn to hunt moles as well as he did, but Tallpaw couldn’t help but notice the differences between them. Sandnose’s shoulders were wide and heavily muscled and his paws were intimidatingly strong: Tallpaw had seen him unearth a molehill in hardly half-a-heartbeat before and rip up the squealing mole from the ground like it was nothing. 

But Tallpaw was skinny and too-long in the limbs, and the few times he peered into empty tunnels after Sandnose, his ears had filled up with loose soil. Sandnose could wait, ear to the earth, for as long as it took to hear the faint scurry of a mole underneath; whereas Tallpaw had already overheard his mentor Dawnstripe asking other warriors for advice on how to make him stay alert and focused on sentry duty. 

“I should probably go see Hawkheart,” said Tallpaw. “It can’t be good to let it stay in there.”

“No need.” Elmpaw braced the leg with his own paw and leaned in. “Don’t move.”

Tallpaw froze, watching with wide eyes as Elmpaw held the base of the thorn between his teeth. His breath was warm and tingling on the painful skin of Tallpaw’s pads; then he yanked, and the deep hurt faded at once. 

Elmpaw spat the thorn to the side. It lay, glossy with blood, on the hot sand; it was far longer than Tallpaw had expected. 

“Clean your wound,” commanded Elmpaw. 

“How did you know how to do that?”

“ _Clean your wound_ ,” said Elmpaw, then added, “It was obvious.”

“You didn’t rip up my paw or anything,” said Tallpaw, flexing his toes. “I’m impressed.”

Elmpaw made an exasperated noise and pinned his foot again before starting to wash grit away from the petal-bright wound with quick, thorough licks. The rasp of his tongue stung a little, but Tallpaw tried to keep still. 

“Thank you,” he said to Elmpaw, who flicked his tail in recognition. “Hawkheart scares me.”

“He’s okay,” said Elmpaw. He sat up, briefly washing his face before glancing at Tallpaw. “He just doesn’t like being asked questions all the time.” 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Tallpaw. 

Elmpaw twitched his whiskers. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you today,” he said. “I’m going to ask Heatherstar and the elders to consider me for medicine cat apprentice. I know I’m a little old to be chosen,” he added, “but not by much. And I’ve already been teaching myself little things, like that.” He nodded at the discarded thorn. 

“Hawkheart became medicine cat after being a warrior,” said Tallpaw. “I’m sure you’re not too old.” 

“That’s what I hope too,” said Elmpaw. 

“When did you want to ask?”

“Soon,” said Elmpaw. “Will you come with me?” 

“Of course.” Tallpaw lurched to get to his feet, but thought better of it; the brush of sand against his sore paws felt rougher than usual. “How about tonight? The elders are probably asleep right now and it’s not a good idea to interrupt them unless it’s _really_ important.” 

Tallpaw had learned that through experience. 

Elmpaw nodded, setting himself down onto the warm shifting ground. Tallpaw did the same, stretching out beside him. As he had expected, the hot light of the sun made his muscles begin to relax almost at once, body flooding with golden pleasure, like rubbing cheeks with a friend. 

Tallpaw opened one eye to look at Elmpaw. 

“How come you want to be a medicine cat?” he asked. 

It wasn’t that the announcement surprised him; Elmpaw was as curious as he was, but his curiosity had always been more directed: he was reserved and watchful, forever taking the world apart with his eyes and trying to understand the pieces he found. It made sense that he felt drawn to the art of healing, with its mysterious, distasteful leaves and many fractured bones to be set. 

But Tallpaw would miss him. They had only been apprentices together for a few days, and now Elmpaw would always be some way apart from him, held distant by his new life as reader of the ineffable movements of Starclan. It would be like trying to touch a stone under ice, nose becoming numb the longer you tried. 

“I think it’s what I’m meant to do,” said Elmpaw. 

“But do you _want_ to?” 

Elmpaw glanced at him, and Tallpaw felt suddenly like he was being gently pulled apart and examined as well. 

“Yes, of course,” said Elmpaw after a moment. “I could be a warrior, but it’s not what I want.”

“Why not?” asked Tallpaw. 

“I want to know things,” he said simply. “Not the kind of things warriors learn. I want to know the kinds of things Starclan knows. I want to learn every plant’s name like a friend, and know how to banish sickness from wounds, like Hawkheart does.”

“It’s going to be a lot of work,” said Tallpaw, thinking warily of the lean tabby’s disinterest in apprentices. 

“I know,” said Elmpaw. “But I’m ready for it.”

“I don’t know how you’re not more worried about Hawkheart being your mentor,” Tallpaw admitted. “I think I’d rather spend every day with Sandnose telling me to stick my head in a molehill. You’re really not bothered?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Tallpaw,” said Elmpaw. He seemed amused. 

Tallpaw twitched his tail self-consciously. “I want to know things too,” he said, trying not to sound petulant. “How are you supposed to learn anything without asking?”

To his surprise, Elmpaw was purring. 

“You know, you could try listening for a change,” he said. “You’ve got the ears for it.”

Heat entirely separate from the sunlight made his pelt feel too heavy all of a sudden; he turned away for a moment to pretend to groom his shoulder, feeling embarrassed but not hurt. Elmpaw stretched over to give his other shoulder a matching lick, settling some untidy fur. 

“I’m happy for you,” said Tallpaw after a few moments. “I think you’re going to be a great medicine cat.”

Elmpaw’s ears wiggled slightly, the first sign of real joy he’d shown. “I think so too!” he said. 

“I’ll have to get into a fight with Shrewpaw,” said Tallpaw, only half-joking, “so I can be your first patient.” 

Elmpaw made a face. “Please don’t,” he said. “He starts enough fights as it is. Besides, I don’t want you to actually get hurt. Hawkheart says caution is the best way to keep a wound closed.” Then he twitched his whiskers. “Now I say it, you probably will be my first patient.”

Tallpaw looked at Elmpaw in alarm. “What?”

“You’ll walk another gorse thorn into camp,” said Elmpaw, teasing, “or fall off the outlook rock.” 

Tallpaw opened his mouth to argue, but realised he didn’t have much to say in his defense and shut it again. 

“It’s okay,” said Elmpaw, purring again. “I don’t mind. It’ll be good to have someone to practice on.”

“Happy to help,” said Tallpaw, stifling a yawn. 

Elmpaw blinked at him in sympathy. “You should get some sleep. It’s been a big day for you,” he said. “I’ll wake you when I’m ready to go.”

Tallpaw nodded, then placed his head on his paws. The warm smells of heather and familiar cats filled his nose and, slowly, the world around him melted to darkness under the sun. 

* * *

When Elmpaw woke him, it was past moonrise and the evening breeze was rising. 

“The elders are awake,” he’d said, nudging him with a paw before waiting for him to get groggily to his feet and shake the sand from his coat. “I saw Heatherstar walk that way just now.”

Tallpaw padded after Elmpaw, grateful that the now-cooling ground soothed the sting of his tender paw pads a little. Around them, the campsite was busy; already, the first hunters of the night were returning with still-warm prey dangling from their jaws, and the boisterous older apprentices were play-fighting in the hollow. 

The elders were sheltered at one end of the campsite, in the comfortable shadow of the tall gorse. When it was cold, as it had been when Tallpaw was a kitten first learning about the Windclan camp, the elders huddled themselves in one of the more spacious burrows to hide from the snow--but tonight, with the clear dark sky above and the warmth of greenleaf all around, they were happily talking with Heatherstar in their usual place, able to see all of the camp.

“Do you know what you’re going to say?” whispered Tallpaw, loping to catch up with Elmpaw. 

He didn’t have a chance to reply, however.

“Elmpaw,” said Heatherstar, glancing their way. “Tallpaw. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” said Elmpaw, hesitating for the first time. 

Heatherstar looked at the elders and then back at the two apprentices. “I can spare a moment. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping to speak to all of you, actually,” said Elmpaw, stepping forward with a respectful nod to the elders. “I wanted to ask if… you would consider me for medicine cat apprentice.”

“Ha!” said Lilywhisker to Whiteflower beside her, making both apprentices jump. “I told you so.”

The other two elders, Firepelt and Privetfoot, padded closed and peered at Elmpaw with interest. 

“Well,” said Firepelt, after a moment. “It will need some discussion.”

Behind him, Lilywhisker snorted. “Then let’s start, if you think so,” she said. “I’ve got things to do with my night.” 

Elmpaw looked at Tallpaw, ears angled in worry. Tallpaw bumped shoulders with his friend in an attempt at comfort, even though he felt just as confused. 

“It _is_ about time for a medicine cat apprentice,” said Whiteflower reluctantly from his spot near the gorse. “If anything happens to Hawkheart, Windclan will be lost. It’s needed to happen for some time.”

“Yes,” said Firepelt, looking faintly annoyed. “But it has to be the _right_ cat. If you remember, we weren’t sure before..”

“I told _you_ ,” said Lilywhisker, getting to her paws with some effort, “this was the one. It was you and Whiteflower that weren’t sure. I always knew.” She gave a haughty sniff. “It was obvious.” 

Privetfoot sat down in front of Elmpaw. “Don’t worry just yet,” he said kindly. “We elders have the privilege—and the burden—of discussing some of the clan’s more difficult decisions. But before we can vote, sometimes we have to argue.” He looked over to Heatherstar. “Are you happy to do this now, Heatherstar?”

Heatherstar nodded before padding over to sit with Elmpaw. 

“You can stay, Tallpaw,” she said. He had been trying to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible, hoping no-one would tell him to leave. “But don’t speak unless spoken to.” 

Lilywhisker had hopped her way over, her injured leg leaving trail in the sand. 

“I said when he was born that he would be the medicine cat for Windclan,” she said to the other elders. “It was clear. We asked Starclan for an apprentice for Hawkheart and it was in the next litter of kittens that Elmpaw was born.”

“There were _two_ kittens in that litter,” said Firepelt. “ _And_ Tallpaw not long after,” he added as an afterthought, glancing down at Tallpaw. “We agreed it could be any of them.”

Tallpaw pressed himself low, silently begging not to be considered for medicine cat. 

“No,” said Lilywhisker. “You and Whiteflower agreed. It’s obviously not Tallpaw—”

Tallpaw let out a sigh of relief. 

“—and it’s obviously not Shrewpaw,” she continued. “Elmpaw was the only choice.”

Whiteflower padded forward. “It _wasn’t_ obvious at the time, Lilywhisker,” he said. “Hawkheart is of a singular personality—he wasn’t a medicine cat Windclan expected, but he has been the one we _needed_. Firepelt and I thought that perhaps Windclan would need a cat to follow in his pawsteps in more ways than one. And young Shrewpaw is already becoming so strong.”

“But this one is _asking_ ,” said Privetfoot. “You say it wasn’t obvious, Whiteflower, but we all felt the wind change that day.” 

The elders glanced at each other, and then to Elmpaw. He was sitting straight-backed and solemn, listening so intently Tallpaw wondered if he’d break his ears. 

“Yes,” said Firepelt after a long pause. “Perhaps you’re right.”

Tallpaw’s heart leapt. 

Firepelt turned to Elmpaw. “Your brother was born first, wasn’t he?” 

Elmpaw nodded. 

“It was under the green wind,” said Privetfoot. “I was on duty that day, outside the nursery. It blew in strongly all morning, turning my whiskers. There was no doubt what Starclan was telling me when Shrewpaw was born. But it was a long kitting, and just as Hawkheart told me the next kitten would be soon, the silver wind began to blow.”

“Exactly,” said Lilywhisker with satisfaction. 

“A change from the green wind to silver is not nothing,” said Privetfoot to the other elders. “That’s the difference between Fourtrees and the Highstones.” 

“Of course,” said Whiteflower, looking to Firepelt. “Only we had thought it was the greenling that would become medicine cat after Hawkheart, not Elmpaw. But we were… wrong.” 

Beside Tallpaw, Elmpaw dug his claws into the ground in excitement. 

“I think it’s apparent that this is the cat Starclan has sent to us,” continued Whiteflower. “I vote in favour of Elmpaw as Windclan’s new medicine cat apprentice.” 

“As do I,” said Lilywhisker, as Privetfoot said, “Seconded.” 

The three elders looked to Firepelt, who flicked his ears. “I can admit when I’m wrong,” he said. “The vote is unanimous.” He looked down at Elmpaw, friendly now the argument was done. “Congratulations.” 

“The clan will be glad to have a new medicine cat,” said Privetfoot. “Are you happy to accept the elders’ decision, Heatherstar?”

The leader nodded. “I think Elmpaw is a wise choice. Come with me,” she said to him. “We’ve got to tell Hawkheart the news.”

They stood up, Heatherstar looking pleased and Elmpaw looking moonstruck; he blinked at Tallpaw as if in a dream. Tallpaw bumped his cheek against Elmpaw’s, purring. 

“You did it!” said Tallpaw. “You’re going to be a medicine cat, just like you wanted.”

“Come along, Elmpaw,” said Heatherstar, already padding away. 

“Thank you,” said Elmpaw to Tallpaw, eyes shining. “See you soon.”

He bounded after Heatherstar and Tallpaw watched them leave, his paws feeling a little numb against the cool sand. 

“You’re still here?” said Firepelt, noticing him. He gave a stern twitch of his tail. “I’m sure you have apprentice things to do.”

“Sorry,” said Tallpaw. 

He padded heavily away from the elder’s corner, catching a hint of their conversation as he left. 

“He’s going to be a good medicine cat,” said Lilywhisker smugly. “Silver-touched cats always are. It’s our wisdom, you know. Perceptive. _Always right_.”

“Yes, we heard you a thousand times,” said Whiteflower, exasperated. “Let it go.”

“What was that other one again?” It was Firepelt. Tallpaw carefully pointed his ears away, pretending not to hear. “Born under the white wind, wasn’t he?”

“That’s right,” said Privetfoot. “I don’t think Sandnose was happy about it.”

“Wanted him to be green, like him,” guessed Lilywhisker. “Nothing wrong with white, though.” 

“No,” agreed Privetfoot, as Tallpaw slunk down into an empty scrape and curled up. “But it always makes me wonder—what kind of cat doesn’t love enough to begin with?”

Tallpaw covered his ears.   
  



	2. Chapter 2

Tallpaw padded beside Dawnstripe, easily keeping pace with her despite his wandering thoughts. Ahead, the rest of Windclan moved between the dappled shadows of the forest leading away from Fourtrees and began to ascend the slope towards the lower moor. Tallpaw could hear faint murmurs of conversation between them, but paid no attention to the words. 

“You seem quiet,” said Dawnstripe. “Last gathering you were full of questions.”

“I’m just tired,” said Tallpaw. “It’s been a long night.” 

It was true enough. The gathering party left not long after moonrise and now the full moon was low on the other side of the sky, sinking surely towards daybreak. And as much as Tallpaw enjoyed the adventure of travelling to Fourtrees and meeting the other clans, it was still surprisingly draining, learning new names and scents and trying as much as possible to be an apprentice Windclan could be proud of. 

“It really has,” said Dawnstripe, padding around one of the stones jutting from the hillside. “You’ve learned so much this last moon, I forgot you’re not a little apprentice anymore.” She gave him a friendly glance.

Tallpaw flicked his ears, a little embarrassed. 

Windclan moved on, a stream of silhouettes under the moon, casting long shadows over the low-growing flowers of the heath. 

“You know,” said Dawnstripe, “if you ever did _need_ to talk to me, you’re allowed to do that. I am your mentor, after all.” 

“I know,” said Tallpaw. 

“Not that you _have_ to,” she added. “But if something was on your mind...”

“Of course,” said Tallpaw. 

He felt Dawnstripe’s gaze on him, even though he was looking serenely ahead, watching his clanmates. 

“All right," she said after a long pause. “Just so you know.” 

“I appreciate that,” said Tallpaw, and he meant it. Dawnstripe was by far his favourite warrior in Windclan—and by default, _any_ clan—but she was his mentor, which was not the same as a friend. Tallpaw paused for a moment, and then said, “Do you mind if I walk with Elmpaw the rest of the way? We haven’t talked in a while.” 

“Oh.” Her eyes widened, and Tallpaw hoped her feelings weren’t hurt. Then she narrowed them, warm and approving. “Yes, of course. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.”

“Thanks, Dawnstripe.” 

Tallpaw loped across the heath, to where Elmpaw was trotting some lengths behind Hawkheart, who was in turn in deep discussion with Reedfeather, the deputy. 

“Hey,” said Tallpaw, under his breath so as not to disturb the medicine cat a few lengths ahead. 

“Hey,” said Elmpaw. He slowed down, letting Hawkheart and Reedfeather move further away. “The gathering was interesting, don’t you think?”

“Sure,” said Tallpaw. 

If he was honest, it was just a gathering; he had a feeling most of them would be the same, especially the more he attended. He’d come to know the cats in time, and the arguments, and the movement of each clan’s needs throughout the seasons: requests and bargains and alliances and accusations. This moon’s gathering was peaceful, as was the previous moon’s, but that peace wouldn’t last, and then it would return again. It changed _like_ the moon—full, failing, gone, growing, full. 

“Hawkheart’s been keeping you busy,” said Tallpaw, cheerier than he felt. “I’m surprised you’re not asleep on your feet.”

“I’ve got a lot to learn,” said Elmpaw simply. “Besides, you’ve been training hard too. I saw that rabbit you brought in a few days ago. Privetfoot was very impressed, he was telling me.”

Tallpaw raised his tail. “I got lucky,” he said. “It caught Dawnstripe’s scent and bolted right into me.” 

“Better lucky than good,” said Elmpaw. Tallpaw got the feeling he was quoting Hawkheart. “But I’m sure you were more than just lucky.”

“Thanks.”

They padded in companionable silence past brakes of heather and gorse. 

_Tell him about Palefeather_ , Tallpaw told himself. 

_Why?_ he replied. _He can’t do anything about it. No-one can_. 

_I don’t want anyone to_ do _anything_ , Tallpaw thought. _I just don’t want to be… alone with it_. 

_But you are_ , he said to himself. 

“When do you think Hawkheart will make you a full medicine cat?” asked Tallpaw, pushing his thoughts aside. “He seems happy with you.” 

“Oh, a long time,” said Elmpaw. He didn’t sound bothered by it. “A season or two, maybe more. It’s not something you can rush. I’ll be ready when I’m ready.”

“And you’re okay with that?” 

“It’s what I chose,” said Elmpaw. 

Tallpaw looked to his friend. Elmpaw was growing up as quickly: his shoulders were already broader than they had been a moon ago and his movements more certain and deliberate. Even though he wasn’t much older, he seemed so much more adult than Tallpaw ever felt. He walked like he always knew where he was going. It was one of the few things he and Shrewpaw had in common.

“Well, I’m glad it’s you and not me,” said Tallpaw. 

“Really?” said Elmpaw. 

“Not that there’s anything wrong with being a medicine cat,” added Tallpaw quickly. “I’d just… feel like I’d be giving up a lot. You live a very different life from everyone else.”

 _It seems lonely_ , thought Tallpaw. _I can’t imagine choosing that._ _Not on purpose_.

“I didn’t see it that way,” said Elmpaw. “I thought I _was_ choosing a future, instead of just doing what I was told. It felt freeing to get to decide who _I_ wanted to be and what I wanted to be for Windclan.” He let himself have just a moment of pride before turning his attention back to Tallpaw. “You’re on a path too, you know. Becoming a warrior isn’t _not_ making a choice.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” said Tallpaw. “It’s just… what you do. Besides, what could I be if I wasn’t a warrior? Windclan has a medicine cat apprentice now and I’m happy learning from Dawnstripe.” 

Elmpaw gave a little shrug of his shoulders, flicking his ears. “Who knows! That’s what I’m saying. The world isn’t just medicine cats and warriors. It’s bigger than that.” 

Tallpaw looked at Elmpaw with a dubious expression. “There’s other clans…” he conceded. 

“More than that even,” said Elmpaw. “Think about the visitors! They’ll be here soon, and _they_ don’t have clans. Then there’s the barn cats, and rogues, and loners too. There’s lots of ways of living that _isn’t_ being a warrior. Or a medicine cat,” he added. “I just chose medicine cat and was lucky enough to get what I wanted.” He glanced back at Tallpaw, eyes glittering. 

Tallpaw blinked in surprise. “You thought about leaving Windclan?” he said, voice hushed so no-one could hear.

“No, of course not,” said Elmpaw. “But it’s a _possibility_. That’s what I’m saying. Things are lots of possible things that we don’t ever think about, all because it’s a little strange. Hawkheart told me that. Reading the omens of Starclan requires an open mind—because if you’re too set in your ways, you’ll only ever see what you want to. Not the truth. It’s how he realised he was being called to be medicine cat, even though he was already a warrior.” 

Tallpaw tried to take in the idea. “You really are learning a lot, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been doing my best,” said Elmpaw. Under the moon, he seemed to radiate with silver light, like his happiness lit him up from within. “He’s been a good mentor for me. It seems like Dawnstripe’s been a good mentor for you too.” 

“She is,” agreed Tallpaw. “She has a lot of time for me, even though I think I frustrate her sometimes.”

“I should hope so,” said Elmpaw with a chuff. “It’s her duty, after all.” 

Tallpaw stopped his ears from sinking before Elmpaw could notice. 

“Watch out!” 

Shrewpaw came bounding over to them, slamming his shoulder into Tallpaw’s side and bowling him over before either apprentice had a chance to look at anything. 

“What’s wrong?” Elmpaw looked around, ears high and alert. 

Tallpaw glanced hazily around as well before pulling himself to his paws and shaking his coat. None of the warriors nearby looked alarmed and he suspected he knew almost exactly what Shrewpaw was about to say. 

“I thought I saw some kind of ugly snake about to get you,” he said, tone blithe, “but it turned out it was just Tallpaw’s wormy-looking tail.”

Tallpaw gritted his teeth. 

“ _Shrewpaw_ ,” said Elmpaw, but his litter-mate only gave a shrug before bounding away again. 

Elmpaw looked Tallpaw over for injuries. “He just does it for attention,” he said, flattening down some rumpled fur with a lick. 

“I know,” said Tallpaw. He stretched a leg that had hit the ground with more force than the others and was pleased to find out it was still working. “Don’t know why he wants _my_ attention, though. I do everything I can to avoid him, short of sleeping outside the camp.”

“That’s probably it then,” said Elmpaw. “He can’t stand that you do your own thing, without needing everyone to notice you all the time. He can’t imagine doing that.”

“I started doing that _because_ of him,” said Tallpaw, hackles bristling a little. “I can’t win!”

“I’ll talk to him,” offered Elmpaw. “Come on, it’s not far to camp now.”

They padded together at the end of the Windclan procession, Tallpaw trailing a little slower than usual. 

Part of him hoped that Elmpaw would be able to get Shrewpaw to leave him alone, but another, guilty part of him liked that Shrewpaw was at least earnest about how he felt about him. Tallpaw hated the teasing and the way Shrewpaw tried to push him around at training, but sometimes it felt as though that was the only time anyone was honest. Everyone else cared about him because they had to: Tallpaw was a Windclan cat. It was their duty. It was _always_ about duty. 

But Shrewpaw _didn’t_ care. He said exactly what he thought and went out of his way to notice Tallpaw. He _made_ time to pay attention to Tallpaw, and it was never because he had to. 

It was just too bad Shrewpaw was insufferable. 

They reached the Windclan camp as the red line of dawn began to glow on the horizon. 

Elmpaw looked towards the light. 

_Elmpaw_ , thought Tallpaw, willing himself to speak before it was too late, _I don’t think Palefeather likes me. I_ know _Sandnose doesn’t. Dawnstripe cares, because she’s supposed to, and you’re so far away now, even though we’re in the same camp, and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I thought I needed to learn how to love my clan above all else and I’m trying so hard, I am, I promise. I want to be a good warrior. And I do love Windclan, and Dawnstripe, and you. But I feel so alone all the time._

Elmpaw yawned, turning back to Tallpaw. 

_I’m not sure anyone really wants_ me, he thought.

“We should sleep,” said Elmpaw. “Goodnight, Tallpaw.” 

“Goodnight,” said Tallpaw. 

He watched Elmpaw pad away to the medicine cat’s den before turning away to find a place on the sandy earth to curl up. High above, the lights of the ancestors were slowly fading. 

_What do you want from me?_ pleaded Tallpaw. 

There was, of course, no reply, and not for the first time, Tallpaw wondered if Starclan was listening at all. 

* * *

“You’re well-named,” said the stranger. “You’re _so_ long!”

“Uh,” said Tallpaw. 

“Is it nice training to be a Windclan cat?”

“I’m not training to be _in_ Windclan,” said Tallpaw. “I _am_ in Windclan. I’m training to be a warrior.”

“Yes, that’s what I said,” said the stranger. “But is it fun?”

Tallpaw glanced around, but there was no-one nearby to help. Dawnstripe was in enthusiastic conversation with another visitor, a sleek molly with the same patched fur as Tallpaw, and he got the feeling she wouldn’t appreciate an interruption. 

“It’s mostly fun,” hazarded Tallpaw. “It’s a lot of work too.”

“What kind of work?” 

“Hunting… fighting sometimes… doing sentry duty,” said Tallpaw. “Patrols.”

“What’s your favourite?” asked the stranger, her pale green eyes round with interest. Tallpaw blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

“I like running,” he admitted, before he gave himself time to think. 

The ginger-and-white cat made an amused face. “That wasn’t one of the options, was it?”

“No,” said Tallpaw. “I run with the younger warriors for training sometimes, though. Or just for fun.” 

“Are you fast?” 

“I’m all right,” said Tallpaw. 

“Ooh.” The stranger wiggled her whiskers. “That means you’re probably _very_ fast, huh? ‘I’m all right’ is what someone says when they want you to underestimate them, but you won’t get _me_ that easy. Ask me to a race and I’ll keep an eye on _you_ , Tall.” 

“Tallpaw,” said Tallpaw. “And I’m not trying to trick you.”

“Exactly what someone who _was_ trying to trick me would say,” said the stranger. “Anyway, I’ll let it slide this once. What do you eat around here? Rabbits, obviously, but what else? I thought you’d all be wide as a badger with this much territory, but you’re so skinny.”

Tallpaw flattened his ears in a slight scowl. “You ask a lot of questions,” he said. 

The molly looked completely unabashed. “I’m curious,” she said. “It’s not like I’ve stopped you from asking any.” 

Tallpaw opened his mouth, but Dawnstripe and her companion padded over before he could speak. 

“Good to see you’ve met Pip,” said Dawnstripe. “She’s Betony’s daughter. Would you mind showing her around the campsite? She hasn’t visited Windclan before, so this is all new for her.”

 _It’s new for me too_ , thought Tallpaw, but didn’t say anything. He would be a good guide and make Dawnstripe proud. 

“Of course,” he said, before turning to Pip. “Follow me.” 

She trotted after him, tail high and waving. 

“How about this?” said Pip. “We’ll take turns. You ask a question, I’ll ask a question. Since you got your nose all out of joint.”

“I’m not out of joint,” said Tallpaw. “I’m just not used to talking to cats outside Windclan. We only do that at gatherings, and we’re supposed to be careful not to say too much.”

“The other clans, right?” said Pip. “I got told about them. But it’s not like I’m going to tell them anything, you know. They’d chase us off before we got a chance anyway, is what Wee Hen told me. Which is a bit rude,” she added.

“It’s because you’re a loner,” said Tallpaw. 

“How is that supposed to be true if there’s so many of us? Wouldn’t a loner be someone who’s, you know, _alone_?” 

Tallpaw wasn’t sure. “Well, a rogue then,” he said. 

“A what?”

Tallpaw felt suddenly uncomfortable. “A cat that… causes trouble. They poach and fight with the clans and don’t live by the code. The warrior code,” he clarified. 

“Rude,” said Pip again. “Does the warrior code say that?”

“In a way…” said Tallpaw. 

“Well, there you go, then,” said Pip, as if making a point. “I don’t live by your warrior code but I’m here because Windclan invited us, which means that we can’t be loners _or_ rogues. What does your code call cats who _aren’t_ those things?” 

“There, uh,” said Tallpaw, feeling more and more uncertain, “isn’t a word for that.”

“So there’s only warriors, loners, and rogues?” 

“And barn cats, I guess,” said Tallpaw. “And cats who live with humans.”

“Warriors, loners, rogues, and housekeepers,” amended Pip, “but not us.”

“Wait,” said Tallpaw. “I thought we were going to be taking turns asking questions? That was like… seven in a row. It’s my turn.”

“You go then,” said Pip. 

“What do _you_ call your—” he wasn’t sure what to call the visitors; were they a clan, were they family? “—group, if you’re not rogues?” he asked, going with the safest option. 

“Oh, we’re wayfarers,” said Pip, padding buoyantly beside him. “We travel all over, using the stars and landmarks to guide us. Our path always loops around through Windclan sometime before the leaves start to fall.”

“I always thought you just… wandered about,” admitted Tallpaw. _And came here to eat our food when the weather was good_ , he added, and then felt sharply disappointed in himself for doing so. 

“I like to think of it as wandering with purpose,” said Pip. She didn’t seem at all offended. “Betony says there’ve been wayfarers long, _long_ before your clans started. And there’s lots more than just us.”

“I don’t think they come this way,” said Tallpaw. 

“No, they go around,” Pip agreed. “Not worth coming through and running into clan patrol, Wee Hen told me. But we’re friends with Windclan, so we’re welcome here,” she said, casting Tallpaw a bright glance before stopping to sniff at the prey pile. “So what’s this?” 

“Oh, right,” said Tallpaw, remembering he was supposed to show Pip the campsite. “This is where all the prey gets brought to before it gets given out.”

“You don’t just eat it when you’re hungry?” 

“No, some cats have to eat before others,” said Tallpaw. “Elders and cats in the nursery eat first. Apprentices eat last.” 

“That doesn’t seem fair,” said Pip, with some indignation. “If you caught it, it should be yours.”

“That’s not how we do things,” said Tallpaw. “We look after each other and share what we catch.”

“So do us wayfarers,” said Pip, flicking her tail. “What I want to know is how are you supposed to catch prey for anyone if you haven’t eaten all day? I _share_ prey all the time. I don’t _give it away_.”

Tallpaw chuffed at her, surprising himself. 

“What?” said Pip. 

“You’d hate to live in Windclan,” he told her. “Apprentices have to practice fasting as well, as part of our training to be warriors.” 

Pip gave him a puzzled look, so he explained. 

“You don’t eat on _purpose_?” she said, horrified.

“It’s not the worst,” said Tallpaw. “In leaf-bare, sometimes there’s not a lot of prey, so if you practice fasting _now_ , when there’s always food to eat after your fast, you get used to it by the time the bad weather comes.” 

“That sounds _awful_ ,” said Pip, looking unconvinced. “Why would you want to be good at feeling bad?” 

“It’s not like that,” said Tallpaw, gesturing for her to follow him towards the burrows. “It’s like running. If you do it every day and push yourself just a little bit more each time, eventually you can run really far and not have to take a break. Fasting now means you’re not getting as tired and sick later, when it matters.”

It was how Dawnstripe had explained it to him early in his apprenticeship, when his stomach—which was still kitten-soft and used to eating whenever he wanted—panged with pain and kept pulling him out of meditations. She’d sat with him during those first fasts, keeping his mind off the hurt with conversation; and she’d fasted alongside him for the whole first moon of training, eating only when he did. 

It was a point of pride for Tallpaw that he was much better at it than Shrewpaw, who had regularly whined to his mentor, Harefeather, for sympathy during fasts and acted as though waiting for his next meal might truly kill him. 

“If it’s all right with you,” said Pip, in a clear attempt at diplomacy, “I think I’ll pass on the fasting. I hope I _never_ get used to not having enough.”

Tallpaw showed her the burrows where Windclan sheltered from the heavy rain and snow, the sandy hollow where kits and apprentices played under the attentive gaze of mothers and friends, and the gorse thicket where the elders usually rested. They talked the entire time, sharing memories from his training and her journeying, and by the time they were close to the medicine cat’s ditch, Tallpaw had warmed up considerably to the wayfarer. 

“This is where the medicine cat stores plants and treats the sick and injured,” said Tallpaw, gesturing to the sprawl of brambles that hid the den from view. “My friend Elmpaw is the medicine cat apprentice,” he continued with pride. “It looks like he’s out with Hawkheart right now—that’s our medicine cat—but when he’s back later, I’ll introduce you. To Elmpaw,” he added. “Not Hawkheart. It’s better to keep out of his way.”

“I thought your medicine cats were supposed to be _nice_ ,” said Pip. 

“Elmpaw is really nice,” Tallpaw said at once. “Hawkheart’s not, really—not to apprentices anyway—but he’s been a good medicine cat for Windclan. Elmpaw told me when Hawkheart was a warrior, he thought he was destined to be the deputy, and he trained hard so that when the time came, he’d be ready.”

“What happened?” asked Pip, eyes round. 

“The Windclan medicine cat was already getting old, and then her apprentice died. It looked like Windclan wasn’t going to have a medicine cat anymore—and that’s when Hawkheart asked to train as the medicine cat apprentice, because he realised what his true calling was. Elmpaw says he realised he _was_ meant to lead the clan, but in a different way than he thought.”

“But he’s still scary?”

“Yeah, really scary,” said Tallpaw, giving her a sheepish look that she playfully returned. “He’s very… intense.” 

They strolled further around the campsite, Tallpaw pointing out the nursery and the sentry stone as they went. The late afternoon light stretched their shadows out beside them, like four cats were walking together. 

“Can I ask how come he thought he was destined to be your leader apprentice?” asked Pip as they walked. 

“Deputy,” corrected Tallpaw. “I don’t know for sure, but Elmpaw says it’s because he was born in the time of stillness. It’s normal for cats like that to become leaders or legends or have grand destinies.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, tilting her head. “How do you know?”

Tallpaw stopped walking. How quickly he’d been forgetting Pip was a stranger from a faraway world, and not a den-mate he’d known forever. 

“Oh, that’s a lot to explain,” he said. “I’m probably not the best to do it...”

“You’re here now, though,” said Pip, in a gentle trill of encouragement. “Please will you tell me? I love secrets.”  
  


“It’s not a secret,” said Tallpaw, a little taken aback. “Everyone in Windclan knows it.”

Pip sat down, nearly vibrating with excitement, and flicked the tip of her tail, coaxing him to sit by her. Tallpaw cautiously did so, feeling strange under her undivided attention. 

“Well,” he said, trying to figure out where to start. “You know how everyone’s born?”

Pip chirped in amusement and Tallpaw hunched a little in embarrassment, realising how foolish he sounded. He forced himself to keep going. 

“In Windclan, when a kitten is born, Starclan sends a harbinger with a message for that cat,” said Tallpaw. Seeing Pip’s confused expression, he continued: “A harbinger is a kind of omen. It tells you something important about your future. Something you need to know to know about yourself.” 

“How do they send it?” asked Pip. 

“The usual way,” said Tallpaw. “On the wind. The elders keep watch under the sky while the queen is kitting and pay attention to which way the wind blows. That’s how they know what wind you’re born under and when you’re old enough, they tell you.”

Pip still looked puzzled. “What does it matter, which wind?”

It felt blasphemous to hear, but Tallpaw kept his hackles flat and his fur smooth. “The nine winds are the voice of Starclan,” he said. “It’s how they talk to us. How they advise us when we ask for help and guidance. The other clans don’t know how to listen, but we do. They forgot and we didn’t. It’s not your fault you don’t know,” he added. “Here on the moor, each wind has a name. It has a colour, just like we do. And it has a virtue—oh, that’s a good quality, I guess. It’s... a lesson for us to learn, to be better cats. When a wind blows, Starclan is reminding us to listen to that virtue in ourselves and follow its lead.”

“Every wind matters,” continued Tallpaw, “but the one you’re born under is a special lesson for _you_. It’s what you’re supposed to aspire to embody most in your life. Sometimes the elders say it’s what you’re lacking most,” he said, hesitantly, “and therefore what you need to get better at in your time. You should always be looking for how you can be more like the wind you were blessed by, because that’s what you’re _meant_ to be.” 

Pip was quiet for a moment, soaking it in. “So that’s why Hawkheart thought he was supposed to be a leader? The wind told him?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” said Tallpaw, “but kind of. The lesson of stillness is usually patience and caution, but it can also be decisiveness and leadership. Cats born when no wind blows have to make their own path, often without a lot of guidance from Starclan, because that’s what makes them into leaders. They have to learn to trust in themselves and their own judgement, and learn how to be careful and make considered decisions.”

“I don’t think stillness is a wind,” said Pip, her tone dubious.

“Up here, you always notice when the wind _isn’t_ blowing,” countered Tallpaw. “It’s definitely one of the nine. Sometimes it’s called the absent wind. It’s the only one without a colour.”

“What are the others?” asked Pip. “What’s yours?”

“I’m born under the white wind,” said Tallpaw, beginning to feel self-conscious. “It’s, well... white. It blows in from that way.” He twisted around to gesture with his nose towards the far distant Thunderpath, beyond which began the Shadowclan border. A shape caught his eye. “ _Oh no_.”

“What does it mean?” asked Pip. 

“Trouble’s coming,” muttered Tallpaw, as Shrewpaw strode confidently over, already sneering. 

“What does what mean?” said Shrewpaw, looking between Tallpaw and Pip. He decided on Pip. “You’re the rogue apprentice, are you?” 

“Wayfarer,” corrected Tallpaw. Shrewpaw seemed not to hear him. “This is Shrewpaw,” he said to Pip, trying not to grimace. 

“I’m Pip,” said Pip. “What’s your wind?” 

“My what?” 

“The one you’re born under,” she said, slowly, as if he was a bit dumb. She glanced at Tallpaw. “I thought all Windclan knew about it?”

“What are you telling her that for?” said Shrewpaw, turning on Tallpaw too. “That’s sacred Windclan business!”

“It doesn’t hurt anyone,” said Tallpaw with a shrug of his shoulders. He looked at the tuft of grass in front of him, gently batting it with a paw. 

“Do you know what wind I’d have?” Pip asked him. 

_"You wouldn’t have one_ ,” snapped Shrewpaw. “You _don’t_ have one. You weren’t born here.”

“Do you know what wind was blowing when you were born?” asked Tallpaw, following Pip’s lead and ignoring Shrewpaw. 

Pip thought for a moment, then sighed. “No, I don’t. And I don’t think Betony would know either. It’s not something we notice, except when we’re hunting.” 

Tallpaw opened his mouth to say it probably didn’t matter anyway, when Shrewpaw said, “ _Hey_!”

Before he could brace himself, Tallpaw was knocked over by Shrewpaw, who had thrown himself claws-first at him in fury. They wrestled on the ground for a moment, until Shrewpaw was suddenly and unceremoniously hauled off him. 

Pip had leaped up and grabbed Shrewpaw by the scruff. She dragged him away from Tallpaw and then pounced on him herself, snarling. Her legs kicked rapidly against his underbelly as she grappled his head, and he squealed in surprise and—Tallpaw hoped, a little fiendishly—pain. 

“That’s enough!” 

Dawnstripe and Betony were bounding over, along with Harefeather and a couple of other warriors. Shrewpaw and Pip were wrenched apart by Dawnstripe and Harefeather, both of them still writhing and swinging their paws.

“What are you _doing_?” demanded Betony, looking shocked. “Pip, we’re guests here.”

Pip spat out a wet clod of dark brown fur. “He attacked my friend!” she said, glowering mutinously at her mother and the gathered warriors. 

Tallpaw’s heart fluttered. 

“ _Sit down_ ,” snapped Harefeather to his apprentice. “What happened?”

“She attacked me,” said Shrewpaw. There was a clear chunk of missing fur from his shoulder and he looked uneasily at Pip. “We were just talking and she went crazy.” 

“You jumped Tallpaw first,” said Pip. 

“We were playing,” Shrewpaw shot back.

“Your claws were out.” Pip bared her teeth. 

The warriors and Betony exchanged glances. 

“Tallpaw,” said Dawnstripe, gently. “What happened?”

Shrewpaw was watching Tallpaw, eyes dark with malice. The threat he was making was terribly clear, from the furrows of his snarling muzzle to the low set of his ears. If Tallpaw told the truth, Shrewpaw would find a way to make him regret it. 

_So be it_ , thought Tallpaw. 

“Pip was trying to protect me,” said Tallpaw. “Shrewpaw was being too rough. I didn’t like it.” 

He returned Shrewpaw’s gaze coolly, even though inside his insides felt full of wet, wriggling worms. 

Beside Shrewpaw, Harefeather looked disappointed. “Come with me,” he told his apprentice. “You’re going to have Hawkheart look at that bite and then we’re having a talk.”

He bowed his head briefly to Betony. 

“I hope my apprentice’s ill-judgement won’t cloud the harmony of our time together,” he said to her, perfectly formal. “He is young and has a lot left to learn about respect.” 

Betony waved her tail in gracious deferral. “It’s already forgotten.” 

With the Shrewpaw skulked after Harefeather, visibly fuming, but he didn’t look back, which was a relief to Tallpaw. The surrounding warriors drifted back to their previous positions around the camp, leaving only Dawnstripe and Betony beside the two young cats. 

“Are you all right, Pip?” said Betony, while Dawnstripe checked Tallpaw over for scratches. 

“I’m fine,” said Pip. Her good spirits didn’t seem at all dampened by the scuffle. 

“Did Tallpaw show you all of our campsite?” Dawnstripe asked her. 

“Just about!” 

“Heatherstar will be addressing us all soon,” said Dawnstripe, to both Tallpaw and Pip. “Better get yourself tidied up before moonrise.”

“I will,” said Tallpaw. Dawnstripe bumped noses with him before wandering away, talking once again to Betony. Tallpaw didn’t mind; it must have felt like a long time since his mentor had seen her friend. 

He and Pip looked at each other. 

“Thank you,” said Tallpaw. There was a new warm feeling in his chest. 

Pip shrugged, looking—for the first time—a little bashful. “It was nothing.”

Tallpaw padded over to her and began to smooth down her rumpled fur. She let him and, after a moment, she leaned over to groom his shoulder in return. They sat there in pleasant silence until both of their coats sat neatly and gleamed in the orange light of the low sun.

“Are you sure you want to be _my_ friend?” asked Tallpaw eventually.

Pip purred. “You’re already my friend.” 

“Oh,” said Tallpaw. 

“Will you tell me more about your clan and everything later?” asked Pip. “I’ve got _a lot_ more questions.”

Tallpaw twitched his tail. “I guess I could,” he said. “I probably don’t know many answers, though.”

“That’s all right,” said Pip, eyes narrowed and friendly. “We can figure stuff out together. Besides,” she added, “I like hearing you talk. Probably even when you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” Tallpaw listened for a hint of mockery, but there wasn’t any. Pip was entirely sincere. 

“You’ve got a nice voice,” she said. 


	3. Chapter 3

When Tallpaw returned from the afternoon’s hunt with a rabbit, he took it at once to the elders. As he approached their corner of the campsite, however, he was surprised to see Elmpaw there, discussing what seemed to be medicine cat business with them. 

Tallpaw twisted his ears, trying to catch the words. 

“It should be anytime now,” Elmpaw was saying. Tallpaw was, for a heartbeat, struck by how at ease he seemed, sitting among the clan’s elders. And, for a brief, startling moment, he envied him. “Hawkheart would like for you to begin witnessing from tonight.”

“Of course,” said Whiteflower. “I believe it’s…”

“It’s my turn for vigil,” said Lilywhisker, stepping forward. “I’ll get myself over there starting from moonrise, if that’s soon enough for Hawkheart,” she told Elmpaw.

“Why wait?” asked Firepelt, twitching his ears. “He said it’s soon.”

Lilywhisker didn’t reply at once: she had begun to wash her face. “I’m not sitting vigil without cleaning myself up first,” she said, after rubbing behind one ear. “It’s called dignity.”

“ _Vanity_ ,” said Firepelt but didn’t argue any further. 

Tallpaw padded closer to the group, clearing his throat with a little cough. The elders and Elmpaw looked at him and Tallpaw was pleased to see Elmpaw’s expression brighten. 

“Is that for us?” asked Privetfoot. He was lying further back, resting in the shade of the gorse. 

Tallpaw dropped the rabbit and pushed it towards them. “Yes, I caught it just now.” 

“Excellent work, Tallpaw,” said Privetfoot. Tallpaw stood a little taller.

Firepelt sniffed at it. “Still warm,” he said with approval, as if Tallpaw had passed some kind of test. He glanced over his shoulder. “Privetfoot, shall I bring it to you, or will you find it in yourself to walk three steps?”

Privetfoot yawned widely. “You know I would love to,” he said. “But it seems my paws have fallen asleep before the rest of me. What a pity. You will have to bring it here, or I may starve.”

“What a pity,” muttered Lilywhisker to Whiteflower, her whiskers twitching in amusement. 

“I should go tell Hawkheart that the message has been delivered,” said Elmpaw to the elders. “There’s a lot of preparation to go.” 

“This will be your first, won’t it?” asked Whiteflower.

Elmpaw nodded.

“I’ll be there bright-eyed and glossy-pelted at sundown,” Lilywhisker promised him. “Everything will go perfectly.” 

Elmpaw thanked her and turned to go, catching Tallpaw’s eye before he left, as if to say, _see you later._

Tallpaw turned to leave as well, but Whiteflower stopped him. 

“Stay a moment,” said the elder. He peered at Tallpaw with interest, as if noticing him for the first time. “Where’s that friend of yours today?” he asked. 

“Pip’s out hunting still,” said Tallpaw. 

“She seems nice,” said Whiteflower, squinting in a friendly way. He flicked his tail, inviting Tallpaw to sit with him. “It is so good for Windclan that we have such a harmonious relationship with these visitors. We both benefit so much from each other.” 

“We do?” asked Tallpaw. 

“ _Of course_ ,” said Whiteflower. “Look how happy everyone is. The visitors have somewhere safe to stay, with good food to eat and good company to share it with. Windclan learns important news from outside our territory and fascinating stories from their journeys. And the visitors are very much like our warriors sometimes, aren’t they?” he said. “Our friends are noble and live peaceful, intrepid lives. Not like the rogues Shadowclan is always bringing in.” He sniffed. 

“They’re like us in some ways,” agreed Tallpaw, but he wasn’t willing to say more than that. Pip still struggled greatly with the clan’s way of sharing food, so Tallpaw had started to hunt more often in the last moon so that she didn’t have to give _everything_ she caught away. 

“In all the ways that matter,” said Whiteflower. “We’re lucky that our ancestors were clever enough to make this agreement.” 

“ _Ye-es_ ,” said Tallpaw slowly. It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ the wayfarers to visit, because he very much did; a secret part of him wanted them to never leave, in fact. But it seemed to him that the visitors got a lot more out of sharing the territory than Windclan. 

When he mentioned this to Whiteflower, however, the elder chuffed, shaking his head.

“Oh no,” he said, clearly amused. “You’ve got it all wrong. We would be lost without them, Tallpaw. It’s not about the prey, you see,” he continued. “Rabbits breed like, well, _rabbits_ in greenleaf. We have enough to spare and the cause is important. Well worth a few rabbits.” He became more serious now. “No, for us, it’s about blood. It has always been.”

“ _Blood_?”

“Of course,” said Whiteflower again. “When the clan began and we claimed our territory here on the moor, Windstar knew that before long, we would all be kin. It’s what happens when cats don’t travel enough. Before she became leader of our clan, she was a wayfarer herself, so she had seen all kinds of things and learned of that dreadful truth. She vowed never to let it happen here and, in her wisdom, it was she who made alliances with the barn cats and who welcomed peaceful travellers to stay with us when the weather was fine and omens fortunate.” 

“So the wayfarers have been visiting since the clan began?” said Tallpaw. He reminded himself to tell Pip later that Wee Hen had been right. 

“Oh yes,” said Whiteflower. “Not always the same group, mind you. These visitors we have now have been staying since I was born, but before them, it was a different family of wayfarers, I’ve been told. Those ones came from the village-way each greenleaf and followed the Thunderpath past the barns and beyond the horizon after their visit with us. But as long as we have visitors, Windclan will always thrive,” he said with satisfaction. “Just look at you.”

Tallpaw blinked. “Me?”

“It’s a few generations back now,” admitted Whiteflower, “but good planning has long-lasting results. A spared doe is worth a warren next year as my mentor used to say.”

“I’m sorry,” said Tallpaw, bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

“Palefeather is the descendent of a wayfarer,” explained Whiteflower, “which means you are too, Tallpaw. Her grandmother’s father came to our clan as a visitor with the wayfarers from before.”

“I never knew,” said Tallpaw. “And Sandnose? Is he part-wayfarer too?”

“Oh, no,” said Whiteflower, in good humour. “Sandnose’s grandfather was a barn cat. Having different histories is what made them such an easy match to make—and look at you. Growing up so strong and healthy, just like Windstar wanted.” He looked at Tallpaw with pride, but Tallpaw wanted to cringe. “It’s a pity about your litter-mate, but sometimes these things happen. Even the best arrangements don’t always work out perfectly.”

Whiteflower looked about to say something else when Lilywhisker padded into view, her white fur gleaming sleekly in the glow of twilight. 

“Not boring him with arrangement talk?” she asked, her ears lowered in disapproval. “You know young cats don’t care about all that.” 

  
“It’s never too early to learn,” said Whiteflower severely. “At his age, I was already taking an interest in our history. Every apprentice should.”

“You were _born_ old,” said Lilywhisker. She tossed her head in a show of blasé disinterest and padded away towards the nursery. 

Whiteflower watched her leave with an annoyed expression, and then flattened his fur and turned his attention back to Tallpaw. 

“It’s an important tradition,” he said, as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “and it’s never a bad time to be thinking about the future, Tallpaw. I can see you’ve got a wonderful friendship with young… what is her name again? Pip? Yes, with Pip,” he continued. “You’ll be a fine young warrior soon and I am thinking by next greenleaf your Pip just _might_ be convinced to stay with us—at least until the visitors return again.” 

“She’s not _my_ Pip,” said Tallpaw, but very quietly.

“Wayfarer molly with a warrior tom isn’t something we often do,” said Whiteflower, half to himself. “The last time that happened would have been… Heatherstar’s grandmother, I believe. A wayfarer tom is much easier to arrange. _But_ ,” he said, focusing now on Tallpaw, “she does seem to have really taken a shine to you, so I think we are in with a chance—provided Betony agrees.”

Tallpaw looked at his paws.

“Nothing to worry about now, of course,” Whiteflower added in a reassuring tone, perhaps misreading his expression. “Lilywhisker is right when she says this is something for elders to concern ourselves with. I wouldn’t expect for _you_ to talk to Betony—especially not right now, before you’ve even finished your apprenticeship! Just focus on your training, Tallpaw, and I will handle the rest when the time comes.”

Tallpaw could feel Whiteflower’s gaze on him, but didn’t look up. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

“Truly, it is my pleasure,” said the elder. “You have an outstanding lineage and I can’t tell you how happy I am to know that we’ve found such an exceptional match for you already. It’s our duty to consider and protect the future of Windclan, as our ancestors before us,” he said, “but I am always so pleased when things work out so well.”

_Duty_ , thought Tallpaw, seething.

“I should really go find Dawnstripe,” lied Tallpaw politely. “She wanted me to train some more this evening.”

“Off you go,” said Whiteflower. “I’m going to have some of that big rabbit you brought us.”

Tallpaw waited until Whiteflower sat by the other elders before stalking away, trying to hide both the anger and the fear he felt. 

He had a lot to think about. 

* * *

Tallpaw raced across the heath, wind pulling against his coat and ears as he ran. Below his flying paws, the soil was sandy and cool, one of a dozen tracks weaving thinly between the long shivering tussocks of grass. He turned sharply at a sprawl of bramble, leaping over its coiling branches—now weighed low and lushly black with berries—and bolted onward down another track. He raced past the bright yellow bursts of sneezeweed that trembled in the breeze; past a lichen-mottled boulder, half-hidden in the earth; past fragrant mounds of majoram that, along with the heather and the towering, soon-to-flower foxgloves, had turned most of the moor purple. 

Some lengths behind, he could hear panting breaths and the rush of fur against grass stems, and forced himself to go faster. It felt _wonderful_ ; each breath burned down his throat, his heart beat hot and rapid in his chest like the wings of a bee, his muscles flooded with light, with strength, with whatever the wind was made of. For a moment, he understood power and he understood joy. 

Over the next swell of hill, he saw the outlook rock, and dashed towards it. The sounds of the others far behind faded away, irrelevant, nothing. There was only him, the wind, the heath, the infinite sky, flying together. 

The outlook rock loomed ahead of him. Regretfully, he slowed as he came closer, skidding to an ungainly stop beside the enormous outcrop of stone. He marked his scent and looked back towards the track.

A few moments later, Pip came bounding into view, but caught sight of him and threw herself down on her side lengths before she got to the outlook rock. Her flank rose and fell in heaves as she sprawled on the turf. 

“Doing okay?” asked Tallpaw, padding towards her. 

“Can’t talk,” said Pip. “Breathing.” 

Tallpaw sat beside her. 

“You did better that time,” he said, in what he hoped sounded conciliatory and not condescending. “I heard you catching up by the harebells.”

With some effort, Pip sat up, looking a bit dishevelled. “I don’t know why I keep agreeing to do this,” she said, somewhat breathless still. “ _Why_.”

“You love to suffer?” guessed Tallpaw.

“Do I love to—yes, well.” She gave him an unimpressed look. “I’m learning my lesson this time,” she said. “Never again. My paws are going to fall off.”

Tallpaw felt alight with pleasure. 

“They’re going to fall off. Grow some paw-flowers. You’ll bring apprentices here in seasons to come to tell them the sad story of Pip who fell for Tallpaw’s wheedling one too many times and now has to crawl around on her belly like a slug,” Pip was saying. 

“I understand,” said Tallpaw solemnly. But he knew the next time he mentioned a race through the heather, Pip would say yes. 

There was a loud rustling sound from the way they’d come and Shrewpaw crashed through a clump of grass, panting. 

“Not fair!” he said at once. “Some stupid rabbit dug a scrape on the run and I tripped.”

“Shame,” said Tallpaw.

“You’re last,” said Pip. “Means that you lost.”

“You lost too,” accused Shrewpaw. 

“I lost less than you,” said Pip, “so really, if you think about it, I just didn’t _win_.”

“That’s nonsense.” Shrewpaw clumped over to them, looking cross. “You didn’t win, therefore you _lost_.”

“Ah, but I didn’t come last,” said Pip. “I actually came second.”

“You came second _-last_ ,” said Shrewpaw. 

“Agree to disagree,” said Pip coolly. Shrewpaw seemed to be gritting his teeth. His claws flexed against the short grass for a moment.

“Don’t rile him up,” said Tallpaw in a low voice, leaning over to Pip’s ear. Pip and Shrewpaw hadn’t fought again since that first day and Tallpaw didn’t want to be stuck in the middle this time—especially if Pip started it.

But thankfully, Shrewpaw was already walking away. 

“Fine,” he said. “Whatever. Play your dumb running game like kittens anyway. I’m going to train. _Properly_.”

He stalked off back towards the Windclan campsite. 

Pip and Tallpaw watched him go. 

“He’s been better this moon,” said Tallpaw after a few moments. “I think it’s you.” 

Tallpaw wondered, for perhaps the thousandth time, what would happen when Pip was gone. 

“Come on,” said Pip. “I need water.”

Together, they walked across the moor at a much more leisurely pace, to a large low ditch that often filled with water for several days after it rained. It always tasted stale and muddy, but it was still good enough to drink and at night, the grey water was cool and refreshing. They both lapped at it appreciatively.

“The sky tonight is so beautiful,” said Pip. 

Tallpaw silently agreed.

There were a few clouds leftover from the rain the day before, hanging in the air like sheep’s wool caught on barbed wire; in the blackness, they shone in complex folds of white and silver, their edges slightly ragged and slowly melting away. The moon was in its failing shape, a thin claw of solid light poised to pierce the sky; and around it, the thousand eyes of Starclan watched the world below.

Pip and Tallpaw found a soft patch of clover and laid down, long limbs comfortably stretched out as they lounged. It was still warm enough not to need to huddle up and Tallpaw as grateful for that. Soon, leaf-fall would really begin, bringing with it the biting cold and icy rain, but for now, the golden wind breathed warmly over the heath like a queen over her kittens. It smelled faintly earthy as always, the scent of freshly turned soil from the paddocks over the river. 

“Do you think we’ll get to see Mallowpelt’s litter soon?” asked Pip. 

The three new kittens—“two under the black wind,” Lilywhisker had proudly reported, “and the runt under the blue”—had been nearly all the clan talked about since they’d been born, so Tallpaw wasn’t surprised by Pip’s continued curiosity. It felt bad to disappoint her.

“I don’t know,” said Tallpaw. “Probably not, though. Dawnstripe told me it’s usually half a moon at least before queens bring out kits to show the clan. Hers are only a few days old.”

Pip sighed. “Damn,” she said, with feeling. “I was hoping I’d get to see them before we leave. They’re going to be _warriors_ by the time I come back.”

“It’ll go fast,” Tallpaw reassured her, but a smaller, more terrified voice warned himself, _it’ll go fast_.

“It won’t be the same,” said Pip and sighed. “It’s _kittens_ I want to see. They’re so little and their heads are so funny and round. It’s great. I’ve only ever seen one before.”

“Really?” asked Tallpaw, then realised how foolish his surprise was: he’d never seen even _one_ kitten outside of his time in the nursery. 

“Yeah, on the way here. One of the cats who was journeying with us had a kitten about a moon before we came here. She stayed behind to look after it,” she said. 

“She was left _behind_?” asked Tallpaw. This was shocking news. 

“Not in a bad way! It’s just how we do things. It’s too hard to travel with them, so queens usually find a nice house or a barn or join another group with territory for a while until the litter is old enough to keep up. One of Betony’s friends stayed at the village last year to raise hers, so we’re going to collect Hedgehog and her litter after we leave here. You’ll get to meet them all next time—unless they go wayfaring elsewhere, I guess,” said Pip. 

She looked hopeful and looking at her, her happiness felt like his own.

“It’s going to be so great to have more cats my age with us,” she continued. “It was so boring before we came here.” Then she faltered, her ears drooping slightly. “I’m going to miss you, though.” 

“I’m going to miss you too,” said Tallpaw. 

They were quiet for a moment, thinking about the future. 

Tallpaw forced himself to sound cheerier. “Where do you go after the village? Do you know?”

“Oh yeah,” said Pip. “Betony’s told me the path so many times, in case I ever get lost.” Pip made a noise, clearly saying, _as if_. “We go through the village, meet Hedgehog and her litter at the far end of town, and then pass through to a big park on the other side. We follow the river all the way to the reserve and that’s where we’ll spend most of leaf-bare. I don’t actually remember it, because I was a kitten last time we were there, but Betony always told me to look for the tall shiny fence. She says it looks like silver spiderweb.” 

“You see so much of the world,” said Tallpaw. 

“After a while, your paws hurt and you don’t appreciate it much,” said Pip. “Although after running with you, I think I’m going to have the strongest paws of any wayfarer ever.” She wiggled her toes at him. 

Tallpaw chuffed at her. “You have so much _freedom_ ,” he said, allowing the wistfulness he felt to enter his voice. “The faster _I_ run, the sooner I’m at the edge of the moor.”

“So run slower and let me win sometime,” said Pip, but she was clearly joking. “It’s okay, I get it. Everyone wants so much from you clan cats.” She looked up at the stars. “Your mentor wants you to do _this_ , your leader wants you to do _that_ , you’ve got to follow the warrior code all the time, the elders are always giving you errands, Starclan’s telling you you’ve got some big destiny you’re supposed to live up to… I don’t have any of that.” 

She didn’t look away from the sky, with its melting clouds and skinny moon.

“I get to see and learn a lot, but none of it is _mine_. Not on purpose. If I want stuff to be important, I have to choose it for myself and I have to stick with it by myself. No-one’s going to make me. So it’s freedom,” she said. “But it’s also… uncertainty. People come and go so much. And our ancestors are somewhere else,” she said. “They don’t give us advice.”

Tallpaw and Pip had spoken about the ancestors not long after they first met, when Tallpaw explained what Windclan knew of Starclan. Pip had listened in fascination and when it was her turn to explain the history of the wayfarers and the spirits that watched over them, she’d simply said, _they’re not here anymore_. 

_What do you mean?_ Tallpaw had asked. _Where did they go?_

Pip had said, _the next world. Where else?_

It was a place the living couldn’t smell or see or touch, or even imagine. _It might be just like this world_ , Pip had said. _Or it might be totally different. No-one knows. Once you go there, you can’t go back. Only forward_. 

The next world wasn’t the end, she’d said. Good or bad cat, you went to the next world. The next world was a second chance. The next world was a new adventure. The next world was what you made of it. 

_A lot like this one_ , Pip had said. _And when your time is up there, you go onward_. 

_To where?_ Tallpaw asked.

Pip had chuffed at him, like he was silly. _The_ next _world_ , she said. _Always to the next world_. 

Tallpaw had considered it for a long time before eventually saying, _but what about your family? Won’t you miss them?_

There was something terrifying about the thought of an afterworld like a great black maw that swallowed everyone you ever knew, and gave you a shiny new life in return. 

_I might see them again_ , said Pip. _Eventually_. _We’ll all be in the next world together, so who knows_. 

And that was it: _who knows_. Tallpaw had always believed that Starclan knew, because Starclan was watching. Starclan was _there_ , a thousand lives worth of memory, thinking together, watching the world, listening to the future. Starclan had answers; Starclan had wisdom. The living only needed to ask the right questions, and listen carefully. Even stillness was a lesson. 

Pip had no-one to ask, and nothing to listen to. It was freedom, the same way the perfect dark was freedom; impossible to tell your own body from the blackness. No future. No past.

Tallpaw wasn’t sure if he loved it, or hated it. 

“ _You’ll_ be a warrior soon,” said Pip, breaking him from his thoughts. “I’m sorry I won’t be there for your ceremony. How’s that feel?”

“Strange,” said Tallpaw. “I thought I’d be more... adult by now. I thought by now I’d have everything figured out. I hoped I’d at least understand what Starclan’s trying to tell me, but I don’t even have that.”

Pip hummed sympathetically. 

“What is the white wind even for?” he said, frustrated. “Everyone says, _love your clan—_ but we’re _all_ supposed to love our clan. It’s our _clan_. We’re _warriors_. Why did _I_ need that lesson, and no-one else? Does Starclan think… I’m not loyal enough?” 

“That can’t be it,” said Pip at once. “You’re going to be a great warrior. I can tell.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m failing, Pip?” Tallpaw sunk his claws into the sandy ground. “I’m loyal to my clan and I’m trying so hard to love my clan-mates, even though—” He hesitated for a heartbeat. A traitorous voice in his head said: _even though they hate me_. “—even the ones I don’t get on with much,” he corrected. “I don’t know what’s left for me to do, but I feel unfinished. And unhappy.”

Pip looked at him with round eyes, her ears forward in concern. “ _I_ thought you grew up a lot,” she said after a moment. “You’re not the timid apprentice I met when I first came here. You’ve told me so many beautiful stories and poems, and you work so hard for your clan all the time. And you seemed pretty happy spending time with me?” she added, more tentatively, as if she was afraid of the answer. 

“Really happy,” said Tallpaw, and he meant it. 

_But you’re leaving_ , he thought. _And when you come back, things are going to be different_. 

He hadn’t told her what Whiteflower had said to him several days ago. He couldn’t bring himself to form the words in his head, let alone say them out loud. The guilt and dread weighed on him, like he’d swallowed a dozen stones. 

“Anyway, you’ve got time to figure out the question,” said Pip. 

Tallpaw quirked his head to the side. “What question?”

Pip flopped down and curled towards him, playfully exposing her belly. “ _I_ don’t know! You have to find that out. I don’t know much about Starclan or these winds they’re talking to you with, but it seems to me like they keep telling you the same answer, over and over. So really, what’s important now is that you find the _question_.”

Tallpaw considered this. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I probably always am,” said Pip. She batted playfully at a drooping blade of grass.

“And the answer, wisest of cats?” said Tallpaw, putting his head on his paws and watching her. “What is it?”

“Oh, you know this one by now,” she said, purring. “It’s got to be love, don’t you think?”


	4. Chapter 4

It was almost daybreak. Tallpaw was sitting alone, admiring the moor. The dusky light had turned each of the vibrant flowers to the same dull ditchwater grey, and now that the first cold nights of leaf-fall had truly arrived, it wouldn’t take long before the plants began to die back, piece by piece, wilting to dry brown skeletons across the heath. 

The wind, sharp and bright, blowing in from over Shadowclan sleeked down his fur, like the kiss of a friend. It smelled of the hot, bitter scent of dying foxgloves. 

“Dawnstripe said I’d find you here,” said Elmpaw from behind him. 

Tallpaw didn’t look around. “I’m just enjoying the view before I hunt,” he said. 

Elmpaw padded over to stand at his shoulder. “Is there much to see?” he asked. 

“Oh, plenty.” 

“Can I sit?” 

Tallpaw didn’t answer, but inclined his head enough for Elmpaw to decide for himself. 

His friend sat and, after a few moments, he said, “Dawnstripe said you’ve been out here a lot lately.” 

_By yourself_ , Elmpaw didn’t say, but Tallpaw heard it in his voice. His tone was wary, not yet admonishing. 

“Now the cold weather’s coming, we need more prey than ever,” said Tallpaw. “And it’s not like I’m a little apprentice needing supervision anymore.”

“That’s true.” Elmpaw paused. “Your warrior ceremony must be going to happen any day now,” he said, coaxing. 

Tallpaw ignored his tone. “Probably.”

“You must be excited,” said Elmpaw.

“Sure.”

“Only the other day Shrewpaw was saying that you’ve come a really long way with your hunting,” added Elmpaw with some force, clearly determined to get a response. “ _He_ thinks you’re going to really impress the elders. It sounds like he’s not so sure about his hunting assessment, though. I told him to ask you for some tips, and I think he might actually do it.” 

_He won’t_ , thought Tallpaw. 

Now that they were the only apprentices again, Tallpaw had been expecting Shrewpaw to tear into him worse than ever for befriending Pip. But instead, Shrewpaw had become somewhat awkward around him: more often than not, he avoided Tallpaw, and when they did have to talk or work together for training, Shrewpaw was still curt and unpleasant, but not usually cruel the way he used to be. It seemed whatever Harefeather was teaching was having an effect, but Tallpaw was past caring. 

Out loud, Tallpaw said, “I expect he’ll be fine.”

Beside him, Elmpaw quietly sighed. 

For a while, they said nothing. Tallpaw watched the horizon, prickling with annoyance, while Elmpaw traced a paw over the exposed sandy earth of the moor, distracted.

“Hawkheart has been happy with my progress,” said Elmpaw eventually. “He hasn’t _said_ that, exactly, but I can tell. I think he might give me my name soon, actually. That’s what I wanted to tell you. We might have our ceremonies together, almost.”

Part of Tallpaw thawed at once: he wanted to bump noses with his friend and congratulate him, tell him how proud he was, talk about their next gathering together, this time—the first time—as grown cats. But a bigger, colder part of him said: _so what_. 

Tallpaw knew it wasn’t Elmpaw’s fault, but it wasn’t quite _anyone’s_ fault, and in that great blameless expanse, Tallpaw was feeling lost. The answers he found had made more questions, and the absence felt like an open wound in his stomach, seeping a kind of fierce, icy anger into his blood.

“That’s great,” said Tallpaw, but blandly. 

“I thought you would have been happy,” said Elmpaw. There was an edge to his voice. “I know you miss Pip, but the way you’ve been behaving since the wayfarers left is… ridiculous.”

“Then ridicule me and go,” said Tallpaw. 

Elmpaw growled faintly. “I don’t _want_ to do that,” he said. “I want you to stop—whatever this is. You’re worrying Dawnstripe. You barely talk to her. You barely talk to anyone. Not even me.”

Tallpaw rounded on him, bristling. “What is there to talk _about_ , Elmpaw?” he snapped. He put on a mocking voice. “Oh, today I caught a rabbit! How fun, I marked a border! I sorted some leaves and then I ate a mole! _Who cares_? All we do is what we’re told until we die and I’m sick of it.”

Elmpaw started at him. “Where is this coming from?” he said, eyes round. “This isn’t like you.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” said Tallpaw. “I should have been thinking about this a long time ago and maybe I would have realised how _stupid_ it all is much sooner. There’s no point to _any_ of it. We hunt and fight and get told what to do all our lives, for _what_? So when we die we get to go to Starclan and tell everyone _else_ what to do?”

“Tallpaw!” Elmpaw fluffed his coat in shock. 

“They can hear me, I don’t care,” said Tallpaw, casting a baleful look at the dark sky. Only a few weak stars shone down in return. “If they cared, they would have done something by now.”

“You know Starclan doesn’t punish us,” said Elmpaw severely.

“Feels like they do,” muttered Tallpaw. 

Elmpaw and Tallpaw glowered at each other for a moment, before letting their fur settle a little—at least, as much as the breeze would allow. 

“It _is_ worth something,” said Elmpaw, glancing away from Tallpaw. “Everything that we do. We train to protect and provide for _our clan_. It’s hard work, and sometimes it’s thankless, but it’s also noble and beautiful how we take care of each other. We follow the wisdom of Starclan _because_ they have lived through it all before. We’re small and we can only see our little lives on the ground, but from the land behind the sun, they can see the future and the present and the past all at once. They can see the world in ways that we can’t and _they’ve_ been learning since the clan began. _We’ve_ been learning since leaf-bare,” he said, finally looking back at Tallpaw, almost in challenge. “ _That’s_ why we put our faith in them.”

Tallpaw fought not to curl his lip back. “And what about the living?” he said. “What about the elders? Heatherstar? What about the warrior code and all the laws?”

Elmpaw lashed his tail. “Of course. Just because they’re not dead doesn’t mean they’re not _wise_.”

“And that’s it, then? That’s the warrior life. Passing down old wisdom forever, the way we always have, because we’ve always done it that way?” demanded Tallpaw. “Doing everything they tell you you should without ever asking why?”

“What is there to ask?” Elmpaw was bristling. “You _know_ what you should be doing. You know why. You just don’t want to hear it, apparently.”

Tallpaw glowered at him. “I’m listening,” he said darkly. “But all I hear is _be what I tell you._ I suppose you don’t mind that, though, do you? Everything works out for you. No wonder you’re satisfied to be just a—a _string_ in the spiderweb of Windclan.”

Elmpaw flattened his ears, looking angry and perplexed. “What is wrong with wanting to do my part?” he growled back. “Tallpaw, why aren’t _you_ happy to just love your clan and trust—”

“ _I don’t love my clan_ ,” he snarled. 

Around them, the wind moaned lowly, the shaking heather branches whispering a soft _shh_ , _shh_ , _shh_. 

“What did you say?” said Elmpaw, disbelieving. 

“I said, I _don’t_ love my clan,” said Tallpaw, voice flat. _They only want me because I’m useful_ , he thought, but couldn’t bring himself to speak it aloud.

“Tallpaw, that’s… traitorous,” said Elmpaw. “You understand that’s… you can’t _say_ that.”

Elmpaw’s hackles had lowered now and he looked genuinely concerned for Tallpaw, his tail quirked in worry. 

Tallpaw felt tired, as if he’d run all the way across the heath. Strangely, his chest felt lighter now that he had said it: like a brief pause in rain, or the glimpse of sun behind a cloud, some of the storm in his head seemed to weaken after telling the truth. He sat down, spine fur prickling as it relaxed. 

“Palefeather didn’t want me,” he said as Elmpaw cautiously stepped closer, as if he were a stranger. “I figured things out. Why she’s never liked me. Why she and Sandnose don’t really care for each other, not like Brackenwhisker and Redclaw do. It was arranged. For the blood.”

He could still hear Whiteflower’s cheery explanation in his head. 

In front of him, Elmpaw looked uneasy. “I know,” he admitted. “I thought you did too. Hawkheart tells me it’s the medicine cat’s duty to know the clan’s history, not just the elders’. When there’s problems with kittens, it’s the medicine cat who’s expected to fix it, after all.”

“I didn’t know,” said Tallpaw. “I always thought maybe she didn’t like me because my litter-mate died, or because I… wasn’t what she wanted. I thought I’d done something wrong, somehow.” 

“I’m sure she—”

“Let me finish.” Tallpaw gritted his teeth. He didn’t want platitudes. He wanted to be heard. “It turns out she doesn’t like me because she didn’t want _me_ at all. But it was expected and she’s a good warrior, so she agreed to do what Windclan asked of her. And so did Sandnose. That’s what I am: an arrangement.” The words tasted sour on his tongue, and he curled up his lip. 

“That’s not a bad thing,” said Elmpaw gently. “It’s normal. There’s always cats in Windclan born from arrangements like that. It’s an important part of our tradition.”

“It’s wrong,” said Tallpaw. 

Elmpaw twitched an ear. “It’s not always perfect, but it works,” he conceded. “It’s kept Windclan healthy for generations. You know the clan doesn’t just need prey to survive. Without kits, we’ll die out.”

“Well, it’s _wrong_ ,” said Tallpaw again, vehement. “You can’t just— _make_ a cat because you need one.”

“Cats are going to be made anyway!” said Elmpaw, with some exasperation. “Do you want the clan to leave it to chance and have sick kittens until there’s nothing left of us? Should we pretend like we don’t know better, like we don’t have generations of queens watching over us who worked hard to give us the strongest clan possible? Are we going to let their wisdom go to waste? They worked their whole lives so we could have ours.”

Tallpaw sunk his claws into the ground. Elmpaw was being impossible. 

“Warriors have duties, Tallpaw,” said Elmpaw. “You’re not going to enjoy going on patrol in the middle of leaf-bare when there’s sleet and you’re hungry, but you’ll have to do it, because it needs to be done. Not everything can be fun and breezy. Maybe Pip made you think it could, but it can’t, because sometimes work is hard and you have to do what you don’t really want to. _I_ know that.” He scowled briefly. “I chose to be a medicine cat because that’s my calling, but it means I’ll never have kits. I’ll always be devoted to Starclan, and no-one else. That’s my duty.”

Tallpaw’s heart panged, sudden and sharp.

“Would you want someone else?” asked Tallpaw.

Elmpaw stared back, expressionless. “It’s not something I think about,” he said. “My future is on a different path.”

Tallpaw flattened his ears and looked away. “So I’m supposed to be happy that I’ll be another warrior in a long line of warriors dispassionately having kittens for the good of Windclan, is that it?”

“Be happy or don’t,” said Elmpaw curtly, with a little shrug of his shoulders. “I thought this was about Palefeather and Sandnose?”

Tallpaw felt hot under his fur. “It is,” he snapped. “If they weren’t arranged, I wouldn’t have spent my whole life _so lonely._ ”

“If they weren’t arranged, you wouldn’t have been born!” Elmpaw shot back. “Aren’t you satisfied just being alive, Tallpaw? I know it hasn’t been what you think it should be, but it’s not nothing.” 

“I don’t expect you to understand,” said Tallpaw with feeling, realising how true it was. “You had a litter-mate who liked you, Brackenwhisker always cared about you, Redclaw was always interested in you. Of course you think it’s as easy as _wishing_ to be wanted. Just like that, suddenly the clan cares about me.”

“ _I_ care about you,” said Elmpaw. 

“And you became medicine cat apprentice as soon as you could,” said Tallpaw. He breathed deeply. “And I can’t hate you for that. You’re my friend. Right now, my only friend. But you see how… empty this clan is for me, don’t you? You’re loved and important and you have so much of a future ahead of you. And I don’t. I’m just here to be… meat. An extra set of claws. A part of a grand plan I don’t get a say in.” 

Elmpaw carefully padded forward, and Tallpaw was both grateful and resentful of the pity in his eyes. 

“I understand,” he said. “As much as I can.” There was humility in his voice and it was gratifying to hear. 

Elmpaw sat next to him and together, they looked at the horizon. The first light of day gleamed just beyond view. 

“I don’t usually come out here so late,” said Elmpaw. “It’s nice.”

“It’s a good place to think,” said Tallpaw. 

The dawn broke slowly, bleeding across the sky in waves of white, gold, dusty pink, before finally settling into the pale purple-blue of the field scabious, the last of which were still struggling on against the cold across the heath below, teased by the wind. 

Eventually, Elmpaw said, “I won’t tell anyone what you’ve told me. But… I think you need to find peace with this, somehow.” 

Tallpaw said nothing. 

“There was a different path for me,” said Elmpaw slowly. “Maybe there’s a different path for you too.” He bumped his cheek against Tallpaw’s, a gesture of goodwill that made him want to purr. “I hope you find it.”

Elmpaw left, quietly as he had come. 

Tallpaw was alone again, soaking in the first sunlight of the day. It warmed him to his bones, a pleasant counterpoint to the chilling breeze. It still blew in strongly from underneath the rising sun, bringing with it the unmistakable wet-earth scent of Shadowclan’s peat and the distant promise of snow in moons to come. It made him shiver, and not just from the cold. 

The other clans sometimes said that the wind that blew from the sunrise horizon over the marshland chilled the hearts of Shadowclan, turning them harsh and unforgiving as stone, as brittle and cold as ice. But Windclan knew better. It wasn’t the wind that froze the hearts of Shadowclan, but the fact they never _listened_ to it, as much as it called to them.

As it ruffled his fur, Tallpaw considered—as he had many times before—how strange it was, this wind. Rare but powerful, it would howl throughout leaf-bare, baying like a starving dog with a thousand snowflake teeth. It would rush across the heath with them on patrol, when their paws were numb from the ice and stone and they wanted to give up, too hungry and exhausted to keep going; and in the campsite, the clan would come together, huddling for warmth in the burrows underground while it sang overhead. 

That, elders had said, was the lesson it brought. When the clan needed reminding more than ever, Starclan called with their most unignorable voice.

The white wind, the snowbringer. 

Tallpaw’s own harbinger, pressing coldly against his pelt once again as the sun slowly rose on the horizon.

It was meant to bring guidance in his life. But all he felt was cold. 


	5. Chapter 5

“You’ll be glad when those kits of Mallowpelt’s are ready to train, I imagine,” Privetfoot was saying. “It’s hard work for a young warrior to be hunting for the elders without help. Especially in leaf-bare.”

Talltail said nothing. 

He hadn’t wanted to go on this evening stroll with Privetfoot, but there had been no polite way to decline, so here he was, making small talk with the elder as he stretched his legs. He’d said lying on the cold ground so often was making his old bones ache, but didn’t want to walk the moor alone; he wasn’t as young as he once was and, being an elder, he was entitled to a guard. 

Talltail had been nearby at the time, and that was that. 

“Perhaps one will be your first apprentice,” said Privetfoot. 

“I wouldn’t presume,” said Talltail, demure. “Windclan has a lot of warriors more experienced than me.”

“Got to start somewhere,” said Privetfoot. “They do seem to like you. That helps.”

Talltail wouldn’t dare say out loud that the feeling wasn’t mutual. The kittens were a bit over two moons old, and terribly excitable. They romped wildly around the campsite, interested in everything—and everyone. They asked questions all the time, following Talltail around desperately trying to play with him. They’d pounce on his tail at any opportunity, leap on him while he slept, swat at his ears, and take turns running under his stomach when he tried to walk anywhere because he was so long in the leg—especially Deadkit. His odd hopping run didn't slow him down at all; he was almost always the first to start badgering Talltail whenever he returned to the campsite. 

It was exhausting, and it made his heart hurt. He thought of Pip often, whenever he watched them play; he knew how much she would have loved to be there, wrestling with them, indulging their games of pretend. Then his mind would wander to the future, and a now too-familiar dread would slither through him. 

The only way for Talltail to escape their clamouring was out on the heath, so he spent most of his time outside of the Windclan camp. Especially now that Palefeather had announced her news. 

“I always enjoyed mentoring,” said Privetfoot. “But maybe that’s not a surprise, guided as I am.  _ My _ mentor always said cats of the pale wind made for good teachers—but then again,  _ she _ was of the pale wind too, so perhaps we’re not the best judge.” 

He picked his way between the tumbled grey rocks of the heath, stepping carefully around the fleshy clusters of stonecrop thriving between the cracks. Their sharp white flowers seemed to glow under the moonlight, unbothered by the growing cold of leaf-fall. 

Talltail followed, barely having to look where he put his paws. He knew the paths by heart. 

Privetfoot stopped on the highest stone, looking down over the dark moor. 

“Did you know Dawnstripe was my apprentice?” he asked, turning to Talltail. 

Talltail nodded. Dawnstripe had mentioned it once or twice during training, and Talltail had noticed that Dawnstripe had always made a point of visiting the elders often. In many ways, she was an ideal warrior—a thought that suddenly made Talltail feel ashamed of himself. 

“She was my last,” said Privetfoot, with unmistakable pride. “But I don’t like to say  _ was _ . Once your apprentice, always your apprentice. And I suppose that makes you my grand-apprentice, doesn’t it?”

The stroll was a trap, Talltail realised. He felt like a bolting rabbit, discovering far too late that it was running from the claws of one cat straight into the jaws of another. He sighed. 

“Will you sit with me, Talltail?” asked Privetfoot. 

Talltail sat. 

“Thank you,” said Privetfoot, and he sounded genuine. “Dawnstripe has been worried for you. She’s been asking me for advice.”

Talltail remembered his conversation with Elmface, back when they were still apprentices—although it had felt less like a conversation, and more like one long scream to Talltail. They hadn’t talked much since, and Elmface’s fleeting, concerned glances across the campsite had been another reason why Talltail patrolled as often as he could. He had said all he could bring himself to say. There was nothing left to discuss. 

“She wants you to know that even though you’re a young warrior now, that she’s always going to be your mentor,” said Privetfoot. “You don’t stop caring just because someone’s grown up.”

“Dawnstripe was a good mentor,” said Talltail. _ But I’m suffocating here _ , he added in his mind. 

“It makes me proud to hear that,” said Privetfoot. “Do you know why she’s my apprentice?” 

Talltail hesitated. It was common for cats born under the same wind to train together, the belief being that the older could teach the younger how to live up to their calling. But that wasn’t always the way: sometimes cats were given mentors according to their personality, or their talents, or because the elders suggested it. 

Talltail half-shrugged a shoulder. “You’re both under the pale wind?”

Privetfoot’s yellow eyes smiled at him. “No, but you’re not wrong for guessing that. I think everyone assumes that’s why she was given to me. But there’s another reason: I asked.” 

Curiosity tugged at Talltail. “Why?” 

“She’s Firepelt’s last kit,” replied Privetfoot. “His previous litters, I’d always had an apprentice already, or another cat was clearly the better choice. But then Dawnstripe was born and I wanted to be her mentor more than anything. And maybe that’s because I knew we shared a harbinger—but I think no matter what I would have wanted to be her mentor. I wanted to  _ know _ her, and be there with her as she learned who  _ she _ was. Hunting, fighting, warrior duties—that’s part of it,” said Privetfoot, “but anyone can teach those. A mentor’s real purpose is to help you how to  _ be _ you, whoever that is. Being trusted to guide someone home to themselves… there isn’t a better gift in the world. I wanted to be part of her journey.”

“I trust Dawnstripe,” said Talltail. His stomach churned with guilt.

“I think you do,” said Privetfoot. “But you seem… conflicted, Talltail. Most young cats are excited to grow into who they’re meant to be, rushing—sometimes embarrassingly—to show everyone the truth of who they are. They  _ want  _ to find home, whatever that looks like. And sometimes their mentors are left scrambling, trying to keep up. Dawnstripe tells me she wants to be there for you, but it seems  _ you  _ don’t want to be there.”

Talltail said nothing.

“I remember you as a kit…” said Privetfoot, with fondness. “You were such a daydreamer, half of you here, half of you somewhere far away chasing feathers in your own head. When she became your mentor, Dawnstripe worried so much that you would fall behind on training, and blamed herself for not getting you to focus more.”

A fresh curdle of guilt rolled in Talltail’s belly.

“I told her a good mentor doesn’t try to change their apprentice,” said Privetfoot. “You teach the cat in front of you as they are, not the cat you wish they were. She did her best to take my advice. But now, she says you are  _ more _ distant than ever, and less yourself. You don’t have to say anything to me, Talltail,” he said, gentle as a snowflake, “but I’d like you to consider... are you afraid of finding out who you are? Or do you know, and you don’t like the answer?”

A thousand fears rested on Talltail’s tongue, almost spilling out, but he held them back. He wouldn’t admit how close the elder was to how he felt: like he was trapped, forced to choose between a terrifying truth that would disgrace him and a life of lying to himself and everyone around him until everything that brought him joy withered away and took him with it. He could be a perfect warrior, do everything he was told, please Starclan, please Sandnose, please Whiteflower, and pretend it was everything he ever wanted while his heart turned to dust and blew away on that hateful white wind that had told him from his first days of life that this had always been his destiny. 

_ Or I can run _ , Talltail dared to think. 

“Something to think about,” the elder said, gentle as before. Then he shuddered, fluffing up his coat. “It really is getting chilly, isn’t it? I think I’ll head back now. No need to accompany me,” he added. “I know the way.”

He hopped down off the large stone and returned the way they had come. 

Talltail fluffed up his fur as well, looking forward to when his snow-weather pelt grew in. It was still too thin to keep him warm sitting still now the nights were getting sharply cold, but he wasn’t ready to return to camp yet. Back at camp was his mother, preparing for a litter she actually wanted, and his only friend, who had grown up so handsome it was painful to look at him, and a mentor who deserved a better apprentice, one that honoured her teaching—instead of failing it, a slinking traitor, half-hearted and resentful. Back at camp was a future he hated, waiting for him to come lie down and let it sink its teeth into him for good.

_ Or I could run _ , he thought again. 

Heatherstar had said at his apprentice ceremony, which felt like a life ago now, that he was made for running. He had a stride that hares would envy and the horizon seemed closer every day, Windclan territory shrinking around him with each lonely hunt. He could run and be gone, forgotten by next greenleaf. 

No-one knew how far Starclan could see. It was something the elders and senior warriors sometimes debated, sitting in the sandy hollow of the campsite on pleasant nights, their voices carrying over the rest of the clan. Some said that Starclan could only see to the edges of the territories, held near by their thriving bloodlines down below. Others said that the land on the other side of the sun touched every horizon and wherever there was a night sky, Starclan’s eyes would shine down on the earth, seeing and knowing all the secrets of the darkened world. 

Talltail had listened intently to these discussions as an apprentice, but wasn’t sure what he believed. He felt Starclan’s eyes on him now, though; cold and austere, silently judging. 

_ It’s my life _ , thought Talltail, staring back at the twinkling lights.  _ I’m not yours to control anymore _ . 

* * * 

Talltail prowled, pelt prickling, across the moor. It was halfway to sunhigh already, but he hadn’t wanted to leave earlier and risk running into the dawn patrol. He had waited, lounging on the edge of camp, until they returned and feigned sleep, watching through narrowed eyes as the rest of Windclan drowsily huddled together and fell still in the sunlight. Then he slipped away, following his favourite paths across the heath as quickly and quietly as he could without drawing attention to himself.

The wind blew low and gentle, almost hesitant, which was in Talltail’s favour: his scent would travel less, and this would matter even more when he reached the Thunderclan border beside the thunderpath. He would follow the path all the way to the village and then… somewhere. 

He wanted to find Pip. He knew the wayfarers would let him join them, if only he could track them down. It felt impossible—but so had leaving Windclan, and now he was near the border. Not far ahead was the crowded line of shrubs and thin trees that marked the edge of the territory, and beyond that was the unmistakable scent of the thunderpath. It was acrid as ever: a dense, marshy reek of tar, heavy with the smell of monster fumes and old blood turning hot under the sun. 

It cloyed at the back of the throat and under the lips, making Talltail shiver with distaste; but he knew he would have to get used to it. It was his only way forward. 

Then a cry on the wind made him look back. 

A dark shape was bounding towards him, crashing past gorse and brambles heedless of the thorns, and with a start, Talltail realised it was Elmface. He was followed some lengths back by Heatherstar, sprinting as fast as she could; there was no mistaking her, not with that strange pelt, warm and pale as dawn. 

“Wait!” cried Elmface, before it had occurred Talltail to turn and run. 

Talltail sunk his claws into the earth and braced himself. He would not let them drag him back to camp. His mind was set. 

“Talltail,” said Elmface, loping to a stop. He was panting. “It’s okay, I—”

“I have to do this,” said Talltail. He drew himself up to his full height, knowing how he towered when he did so. He knew it would hurt his friend to find out the truth, but there was no other choice now. “I’ve thought about it for a long time, Elmface, and you were right. I have… a different destiny, and I know it’s going to—”

“I know you’re leaving,” said Elmface in a breathless rush. “That’s why I’m here.”

Talltail blinked at him. 

“I ran as fast as I could,” he panted. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

Heatherstar loped in beside him, looking significantly less ruffled than Elmface. Talltail raked his eyes over her, looking for any indication of what she thought of him: a disdainful curl of lip, a disappointed twitch of her ears, an angry rise in her hackles. But she seemed calm—and perhaps slightly curious—and her stance was relaxed and peaceful. 

“How did you know?” asked Talltail, glancing once again at Elmface. 

He had caught his breath by now and was looking back with bright eyes. “Starclan sent me a sign,” he said, reverent. “I was out gathering for the store when I  _ felt _ it—like when you know someone’s looking at you and you can feel it on your fur. I looked around and I saw a magpie feather, caught on a branch of bramble. The wind picked it up as I watched, and it moved this way and that, twisting and turning, pulled in every direction on the breeze. Indecisive. Lost. And I knew it was you.” 

Talltail felt a peculiar tingle down his spine, as if touched by an invisible twig. 

“I followed it,” said Elmface, “across the heath. Watched how it spiralled and flitted, on the black wind, then the blue. The red, to the white. From golden all the way to green. And then, at the top of a knoll, it fell to the earth in stillness. There was no wind at all, like the sky was holding its breath. Waiting. And I knew you’d made your choice.” He looked to Talltail with a complicated expression. “I knew you’d decided to leave.” 

“Are you angry with me?” asked Talltail, fearful of the answer. 

“No,” said Elmface. “I’m… scared for you,” he admitted. “But I have faith. And I want you to be happy.” He padded forward to touch noses with Talltail. “I hope you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

_ So do I _ , thought Talltail, a fervent prayer to no-one.

“You were going to leave without telling your clan?” said Heatherstar. There was no accusation in her voice, just that same faint curiosity. 

“As though I had died,” said Talltail, forcing himself not to look down at his paws. “A clean break.” He could remember listening to Elmface, back when they were apprentices, as he explained how to heal broken bones, and one thing had stayed with him: a clean break heals better. 

“Some could say it’s selfish,” said Heatherstar, and Talltail recoiled as though she stung him, “to leave one’s clan, especially before leaf-bare. But I know better than that. Life will be harder out there for you alone, Talltail. You are choosing a difficult path, one with no-one to tend your wounds—” she glanced briefly at Elmface “—or warm you when the snow comes. Are you sure this is what you want?”

Talltail met her eyes. “I am.”

She inclined her head, a dignified gesture. “Then I wish you kind winds and good hunting.”

“You aren’t here to stop me?” asked Talltail, before he could stop himself. 

Heatherstar regarded him coolly. “No,” she said. “Windclan needs devoted warriors. Your heart wandered away long ago, I think. It was clear to me for some time that you were not rising to your potential, and now I know why. And maybe that lies at my paws.” She looked towards the line of shrubs, and beyond. 

Talltail wondered for a moment what it meant to her, to lose a warrior to that horizon. Heatherstar was a proud leader: wise and sharp and only sometimes severe. She insisted on Windclan’s dignity at gatherings, every pelt gleaming and every cat perfect in their propriety; and she held her ground in every argument, never once bowing to another leader’s whims when it didn’t serve her own. Under her steady leadership, Windclan was thriving—except for him. 

He realised there was an immense graciousness in her acknowledgement, and he was humbled by it. 

“Perhaps leaving is best,” she said after a pause. “May you find what’s missing for you here.” She nodded to him once, then turned to return to camp. “Come, Elmface.” 

His friend cast him a final glance. 

A thousand words rushed up behind Talltail’s teeth, but there was nothing to say. Elmface’s eyes, yellow as a dandelion flower, gleamed in the sunlight, and Talltail could hear him as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud.

_ Good luck _ , said those golden eyes.  _ Be careful _ . 

The Windclan cats prowled back the way they’d come, back past the bramble with its blotch-brown leaves, darkening each day as leaf-bare drew nearer. Neither cat glanced at him again before disappearing out of sight. 

Talltail’s heart hurt, as though punctured by the thorn. There was no turning back now. No regret to be had, because his time here was done and soon all of Windclan would know. 

He padded to the roadside, sheltering for a moment in the gentle shade of a gorse bush. It was still bright enough that he could travel towards the village on this side of the thunderpath, as long as he was quickly and cautious, as Thunderclan wouldn’t patrol until dusk. There could still be cats out hunting, even this late in the day, but he would have to run that risk; it would have to be enough that he was faster than any Thunderclan warrior. 

A monster roared past, but he didn’t startle. As apprentices, they’d all been brought out to sit beside the thunderpath as part of their training, their mentors ready to grab them by the scruff if they bolted in panic. These days, he was used to the sound, full grown warrior that he was, and he was realising how much his training would matter now. 

Talltail silently thanked Dawnstripe, and began to travel towards the forest. 

* * *

Walking by the thunderpath dulled his sense of smell after a while, but Talltail could still pick up the new scents of the forest as he padded softly into Thunderclan territory. He was right on the boundary, the half-sickly expanse of grey earth and gravel overgrown with tall stalks of withered teasel and dying cow parsley between the first trees of the forest and the road. 

The pungent scent-marks of Thunderclan dotted along the border burned his nose as badly as the thunderpath’s steadily-heating tar, but nothing was fresh and this had given Talltail some confidence. He still kept low, treading carefully and keeping as much as possible to the shade of the clusters of fume-laced plants, but there had been no sign of Thunderclan cats yet. 

They would find his scent here when they did their dusk patrol later, but it was unavoidable. He didn’t risk travelling on the other side of the thunderpath, along the Shadowclan border; if  _ they _ found him, he was less sure they would accept his apologies or his explanations. With Thunderclan, he had some chance at least. They were boastful and self-righteous—but unlike Shadowclan, they cared for honour and prided themselves on their so-called hospitality. 

That thought made Talltail shake his head in exasperation. Windclan sheltered and provided for extra cats every year, but never crowed about it or even spoke of it to other clans. Windclan had long-standing peaceful relationships with the barn cats and the wayfarers—but Thunderclan would occasionally spare a lost loner a beating and thought it right to call themselves gallant and generous. It was absurd. 

_ You’re not Windclan anymore _ , said a voice in his head.  _ Let it go _ .

He walked until late afternoon, when the sun had sunk low and orange in the sky, like the centre of a daisy. The shadows of the roadside plants stretched long and thin across the thunderpath, where the heat of the day hovered above the off-coloured tar. More than once, Talltail passed the rotting remains of some small creature that had made an irreversible mistake and each time, his stomach roiled in disgust and a slight tinge of fear. It was easy to make a mistake like that. 

He didn’t dare rest until he reached the end of Thunderclan’s territory, where the forest ended and the thunderpath stretched in every direction, leading into the village. His paws were aching when he finally saw the first house looming ahead but he hesitated, crouching low in the shade of the trees. There was still some time until dusk and there would be humans around. He suspected they would ignore him, the way the ones on the farms usually did if they caught sight of a warrior--or sometimes shout and flap their hands, but unenthusiastically, unwilling to give chase. They weren’t a danger, unless they were allowed to get too close. 

Here, Talltail felt exposed, even hiding as he was. The area was unfamiliar; he didn’t know where he could safely rest, or hunt, or the many possible enemies that could be out there. There would be dogs, because anywhere there were humans, there were dogs, and that thought alone made him nervous. 

But if he waited too much longer, Thunderclan’s dusk patrol would find him and they might force him back all the way to Windclan, or claw him for trespassing, or even take him prisoner—which he thought was unlikely, but not impossible, especially if they thought he was a spy.

_ I’ll just have to risk it _ , he thought. 

He crept out from under the leafy shelter and darted across the thunderpath. He trotted briskly along beside a slatted fence, ears swivelling wildly for the first hint of a threat. The amount of new scents and sounds was already becoming overwhelming and his heart was fluttering in his chest, like a bird caught under a paw. Part of him hoped desperately to catch even the tiniest mark from Pip or the other wayfarers, but the rest of him knew there was no chance: they would have passed through long ago, far too long for any scent to still linger. 

He continued on, passing houses in a haze of vague terror and flinching as dogs in the distance barked. Eventually, though, exhaustion began to get the better of him. He wasn’t used to still being awake so late in the day and he had been on edge since before dawn. 

He slumped beside a fence made of strange identical stones, huddling as much out of sight of the pathway as he could. His paw pads throbbed painfully, no doubt grazed raw with the roughness of the ground, and his stomach reminded him, yet again, that he would need to eat soon if he wanted to keep up his strength. He could stave off hunger for another day or two, if he pushed himself, but it would not be comfortable and he needed all the energy he could muster to find his way through the perplexing village alone. 

He missed Pip. The absence of Windclan didn’t feel real yet, but he has spent so long missing her that it was familiar and reflexive. 

Perhaps it was because he was lost in his thoughts about the moor, and the wayfarers, or because of his strung-out tiredness that had worn him down on the journey so far, but he didn’t notice anything approach his little spot beside the fence until a shadow was thrown over him. 

He glanced up, startled, but the sunlight lashed at his vision too sharply to see. There was only a silhouette against the sky, the same glowing orange as a sunset. 

“Hello, stranger,” said the cat. 


	6. Chapter 6

Talltail squinted up at the cat. He was sitting on top of the fence, head tilted to the side as he looked down at Talltail. 

“Not from around here, are you?” he said. Before waiting for a reply, he added, “You should probably go somewhere else.”

Talltail bristled. He had known he’d meet hostile cats on his journey to find the wayfarers: rogues and vicious loners and even pet cats, perhaps the most bizarre and discomforting of all. He wasn’t going to let them threaten him. 

“Easy,” said the tom on the wall. “You’re all right, I’m just warning you that—ah, too late.”

He sprang away out of sight, leaving Talltail perplexed and alone again. He tried to settle his spine fur, wondering what the tom had meant when a scent hit his nose and immediately his fur stood on end once more.

Dogs. Not one, but many; a whole stinking pack, approaching quickly—but in the strange haze of the village, Talltail wasn’t able to tell which way they were coming from. He glanced about, seeing nothing, then peered around the corner of the wall, and skittered back in terror. 

Several dogs, different sizes and colours, all slavering and lolloping, were coming directly towards him. A human walked among them, connected by thick, dark strings, like a spider in the centre of its web. Talltail didn’t have time to understand what he was seeing; in only moments, they would turn the corner and find him—and he had a realistic sense of his chances against a pack of dogs. 

“This way!” said a bright, familiar voice. 

He turned around to see the tom from before several lengths away, looking far less afraid than Talltail felt. 

_It could be a trap_ , he thought, heart fluttering. But his hesitation didn’t last. _Better one cat than seven dogs. I can fight a cat_. 

He sprinted down the hard, pale stone path towards the ginger tom, who darted away, keeping ahead of him by virtue of knowing the terrain far better. He whisked around another corner, then leaped up onto a wooden fence and along the top of it, not missing a stride. 

Talltail followed, tail waving somewhat madly to balance himself as he scurried along the thin slats of wood: he was entirely unused to climbing or navigating along branches; there were so few trees in Windclan, and even fewer were ever used for sentry duty. 

The tom leaped from one fence to another, and another, Talltail catching up as he found his footing on the strange surface. It wasn’t so different to running a thin path between the heather back on the moor, he realised, making sure each paw fit perfectly into the print of the previous step. 

“This way!” chirped the tom.

He jumped from the fence to the pavement and hesitated at the edge of a small thunderpath, ears swivelling.

“ _Go_ ,” he said, and raced across. 

Talltail scrambled after him, feeling a sudden terrible fear as he placed his paws on the tar. He remembered the stink of Shadowclan, ominous and loathing; and the rot of bodies on the gravel, picked at by crows. Windclan never crossed the thunderpath except to meet with Starclan, one way or another. 

They reached the other side and bounded up onto the path. The tom galloped away past several houses and then turned sharply out of sight over another fence. 

Talltail followed, less quickly now that the dogs were far away, taking in the scents and sounds of his surroundings a little more. Before he had been desperate to escape and noticed almost nothing about the things he passed by, but now he was soaking it in.

There were lines of houses either side of another small thunderpath, each one with a fence outside of it. Inside each fence was a peculiar assortment of plants, almost like a paddock but there was no rye or barley or wheat. In one house-paddock, a monster was sleeping on a grey stone path, and Talltail scurried past it swiftly, body pressed low so it wouldn’t wake and run him over. 

Talltail hesitated in front of the final house’s fence. He could tell from how densely the tom’s scent hovered on the other side of the wall that it was his territory—but he had led him here on purpose, so it couldn’t be considered trespassing, Talltail reasoned to himself. He followed, leaping easily up and over the fence and into the tiny paddock beyond. 

The ginger cat was sitting on the grass, in the last patch of sunlight. He blinked at Talltail in a friendly way, which made him feel slightly embarrassed for his previously bristled fur—but he was also painfully aware that he was a stranger here, lost and relying on himself to survive. It would be dangerous to relax his guard. 

“Thank you,” said Talltail stiffly. 

“Don’t mention it,” replied the tom. “You would have been able to get away, but I bet it was a nasty shock. Everyone around here knows they take that path about this time in the afternoon.” 

Now that the fear was wearing off, exhaustion was seeping in. Talltail sat to take some weight off his paws, which ached and throbbed, rubbed raw by the rough paths he’d been running. 

“You look like you’ve been travelling a while,” said the tom, but it was hard to tell if he said it with admiration or admonishment. 

“A while,” echoed Talltail, unwilling to say anything more. “Friends are expecting me,” he added as an afterthought, in case this stranger assumed he was all alone and vulnerable— _which I am,_ Talltail thought to himself, _but_ he _doesn’t need to know that_.

“That’s good,” he replied. “It’s important to have friends.” He narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked at Talltail. “Are they expecting you tonight? Because if they’re not, you might want to keep off your paws a bit. I can smell the blood on them from here.”

Talltail sniffed and realised with a jolt of unpleasant surprise that he was right. He lifted a front paw to his nose and the wet tang of the freshly oozing wounds hit the back of his throat with force. It was going to be very painful to travel anywhere until his paw pads had healed, and he knew from Elmface that infections blossomed on soft weeping flesh. There was no burdock root here to protect him. 

“You can stay here, if you like,” offered the stranger. “Just until your paws are better.” 

“What about the humans?” asked Talltail. His ears had been nearly trembling with effort since he arrived in the tom’s territory, straining to detect the slightest approach of the humans who undoubtedly lived in the house. 

He tilted his head, looking quizzically at Talltail. “What about him?”

_Be careful_ , Talltail warned himself. “I’ve heard that they can be dangerous,” he said delicately. “Especially to wanderers, like me.”

The tom chuffed, eyes smiling. “Oh, not mine. If you stay in the garden, he won’t even know you’re here if that matters to you. And anyway, he’s friendly. You’re not in any danger—do you think I’d suggest you stay if you were?” He shook his head, amused. 

Talltail considered his options. He could stay, huddled under the plants for a few days until his paws healed, and risk this cat’s human finding him. Or he could leave and take his chances finding somewhere else to sleep—and possibly run into less-friendly cats, or dangerous humans, or more dogs on the way. 

The decision more or less made itself.

“You’re sure I can stay?” asked Talltail, a little wary. 

“Sure,” said the stranger. “You look like you need a rest.” This time he gave him an unmistakable look of sympathy. 

“Well… thank you,” said Talltail.

Part of him—no doubt his pride—prickled at the look the stranger gave him, like he thought Talltail couldn’t take care of himself. Another part of him, however, was warmed slightly by the kindness in his eyes: he hadn’t expected it, or asked for it, but it was given freely, just because this cat wanted to be kind. 

“I won’t cause trouble,” he promised. It was the least he could do. “My name is Talltail, by the way. I am— _was_ a warrior of Windclan.”

He had expected questions about his name and about his clan, but the stranger didn’t ask any. He just nodded, as if he understood. 

“You can call me Cypress,” he replied.

  
* * *  
  


  
  
Talltail woke sometime mid-morning the next day. He has cleaned his wounds carefully: he pulled out a long spindle of wood from one paw pad as Elmface had shown him long ago, and licked the grit and dried blood from the grazes before crawling under a rhododendron bush to sleep. 

He had not slept well. Throughout the night, each new sound woke him sharply; every roar of a distant monster and bark of a dog and clatter of metal gripped him with panic until he remembered he was well-hidden and safe within the walls of the garden—a new word he had learned, the name of the odd paddocks outside each house. 

Hunger had kept his sleep uneasy too, but it wasn’t yet terrible enough to make him feeble or faint. Still, he would have to hunt soon and the prospect of that had him concerned. There seemed to be little prey in the village, and he wondered how the wayfarers managed not to starve on their journey through it each year. 

The sunlight was welcome, though. He had found a spot out of view of the house’s glass eyes where he could lay in the healing heat of it and let it soak into his fur and overworked muscles, melting under its touch like frost in newleaf. 

Cypress had come outside after a while, sitting several lengths away so as not to get in his space, which Talltail appreciated. He smelled bizarre and unnatural after his night in the house: a nose-tingling combination of preserved wood, something edible that was nothing like meat, a lingering trace of smoke and, of course, human. It was impossible to ignore and just being near it made Talltail’s nerves hum in wary attentiveness. 

“Feeling any better?” asked Cypress eventually. 

“A little,” said Talltail. “It’s very loud here at night.”

“I suppose it is! You get used to it.” 

Talltail shifted onto his side and propped up his front half enough to glance over at Cypress, his belly and back legs still stretched out long and lazy in the sunlight. 

“I will need to hunt soon,” he told him. “Is there anywhere you can suggest?”

He knew it was unlikely: as far as he knew, pet cats _didn’t_ hunt. Not like warriors or wayfarers did. Thunderclan sometimes reported them trespassing, but it was only ever to chase a mouse for sport or because they were swatting after a broken-winged sparrow. Irritating, but hardly competent. 

As expected, Cypress looked uncertain. “Not really,” he admitted. “Sometimes I’ll snatch a bird from someone’s garden but that’s usually luck.” He sized Talltail up again, like he had when they first talked. “You look like you need a lot more than a goldfinch.” 

“At least there’s rats everywhere,” said Talltail, half to himself. It wasn’t ideal hunting, but it would do. 

“Probably not a good idea,” said Cypress. “They put out poison recently.” _They_ meant humans, Talltail assumed. “If you eat a rat that’s been at it, it’ll kill you—and slowly. It’s bad stuff. Rat bodies started showing up, which is usually all the warning you get. My neighbours let me know when they spot any.”

A thrill of horror coursed through Talltail. He imagined hunting between the houses: stalking a rat, entirely unaware that already its flesh was turning rancid inside, its blood and muscle as poisonous as foxgloves. He wondered if he would notice—perhaps a faint alien tang to the meat, a wrong aftertaste on the tongue—or would he simply sate his hunger and never suspect anything, only to later collapse and writhe in pain like a rabbit in a snare, his own insides turning traitor on him while he died.

It had never occurred to him before that prey could hide a threat like that under its skin, and the thought frightened him terribly. 

“Neighbours?” he prompted, trying to take his mind off the revulsion. 

“Other cats who live around here,” explained Cypress. “What Thunderclan is to you.”

Talltail started. “How do you know about them?” 

“I think everyone around here does,” said Cypress. “It’s hard not to hear about them, the gang of wild cats in the forest! They’re big and dangerous and if you go in there, you might lose your ears for it! But they’re not all bad. I’ve talked to cats who’ve talked to cats who met some, and they said they were okay. We usually warn new cats to stay away from there, though, just to be safe.” He looked to Talltail with open curiosity. “There’s three of you, right? Clans?”

“Four, actually,” said Talltail. “Windclan lives on the heathland, past the forest.”

“I’ve never been there,” said Cypress. “What’s it like?”

Talltail paused. He had never had to describe the moor to anyone before: it was always just there, in front of them, speaking for itself in every imaginable colour. Words felt inadequate, but they were all he had, so he began. He explained hesitatingly at first, choosing his phrasing carefully--but Cypress was an attentive listener and appreciative audience: he hummed and nodded in the right moments, eyes wide and ears pert with fascination and pleasure. It gave Talltail new confidence, so he started weaving in bits of his own life where they intermingled with the landmarks: hunting rabbits together with the other young warriors, sitting sentry on the outlook rock under the stars.

“It sounds _wonderful_ ,” he said when Talltail finally ran out of words. “You make it seem so adventurous, living wild out there! I always thought it would be uncomfortable, sleeping rough and being cold all the time and never knowing when your next meal’s going to be, but now I want to run out there myself.”

“Well, it is those things too,” said Talltail. As if to emphasise that statement, his stomach growled. 

“Is that why you left?” asked Cypress, and then quickly said, “Sorry, that’s rude, it’s not my business.”

He stood up, fluffing up his coat. 

“Since you can’t hunt right now, how about I get you something to eat?” he said, forcefully changing the subject. 

Talltail was grateful for the excuse not to continue the conversation; he was not feeling especially proud of his choice, particularly now that this cat was imagining it so much better than Talltail had experienced it. 

“Can you do that?” he asked. From what he could gather, Cypress was not any kind of hunter.

“Oh, easy,” he replied. “Watch this.”

He zipped back to the house and through the plastic-looking tunnel cut into the door, which rustled like reeds when he pushed past it and out of sight. After a few moments, he returned and loped back to Talltail. 

He dropped a mouthful of brown gravel on the grass. 

“There’s plenty, so I can get you more if you want it,” he said. “You’ve probably never had this before, huh?”

Talltail craned his neck to lean in and sniff. On closer inspection, he realised it wasn’t gravel: it was some kind of food, dry and grain-shaped and smelling not of meat but like it was _trying_ to be meat. Despite his uncertainty, Talltail’s mouth began to water. 

“It’s safe to eat,” said Cypress. “Look.” He crunched up one pebble of it. “I have it all the time.”

“Do you _like_ it?” He narrowed his eyes, staring at the odd little lumps with some distrust. He had been raised to follow the warrior code and he wasn’t sure if eating this human-made food would tarnish him in the eyes of Starclan.

_As if this is going to make a difference_ , said a voice in his head. _You already abandoned your clan. You’re_ not _a warrior anymore._

“It’s all right,” said Cypress. “There’s lots of different kinds and some are worse than others, but I like this one best. Try it. Tell me what you think.”

Talltail tentatively grabbed a pebble with his nibbling teeth and tossed it back into his jaws. 

It was definitely edible, but like nothing he’d ever eaten. It crunched a little like bone, but tasted nothing like marrow, and after another crunch or two, it turned to chalky dust on his tongue. 

“That bad?” said Cypress, but he didn’t sound offended. 

“Was I making a face?” said Talltail. He grabbed another few pebbles and crunched them. He didn’t _enjoy_ the experience, but it was food and his stomach was snarling for more already. After another few mouthfuls, he suspected he’d adjust to the strange texture, like he did the first time he ate lizard. 

“A bit,” said Cypress, eyes smiling. “I’ll get you more.”

Cypress dashed to the house and back a few times and then allowed Talltail to eat in silence—or at least, eat as silently as he could, his teeth cracking and crunching on the pebbles the entire time. 

After he finished the last bite, he glanced at Cypress. “You’re not going to starve now, are you?”

Cypress shook his head. “If I’m hungry later, I can just ask him to get more out for me.”

“The human? He can understand you?” 

“Sort of! He doesn’t speak, obviously—well, not _well_. He tries sometimes.” Cypress looked fond. “But he can figure it out pretty quickly if I ask him for something.”

“Does he talk to you?” Talltail was fascinated.

Cypress considered the question. “Not really,” he said after a moment. “Humans aren’t good at conversation. But we’re friends and he cares for me a lot.”

Talltail found that hard to believe, but it would have been rude to say so, especially after Cypress had shared his food with him. He started washing his paw instead, scrubbing crumbs from between his whiskers with brisk strokes. 

Once he was clean, he said, “Thank you. Again.”

“It’s no trouble,” said Cypress. “I let you sleep in the garden and eat food I probably wasn’t going to have anyway. Besides, I like hearing stories from travellers and you don’t get a _warrior_ pass by every day. Let’s call it even.”

Talltail shifted, uncomfortable with the admiring tone, but an idea occurred to him. 

“Speaking of travellers,” he said, daring not to hope too much, “you don’t know about a group of cats that passed through some time back, about two moons ago? They call themselves wayfarers. A ginger-and-white cat called Pip is with them, and Betony, and some others.”

“Are these your friends?” asked Cypress.

“They’re the cats I’m trying to find,” he replied. “They pass through the village every year on their journey to a... park. A big one.” Talltail wasn’t totally sure what a park actually was, but his understanding was that it was more or less a very large garden. “I want to track them down. Did you meet them when they were here? Or know anyone who did?”

Cypress twitched his ear, clearly not wanting to disappoint Talltail with his response. 

“Sorry,” he said, looking genuinely contrite. “No, I don’t know them and I’m sure my neighbours would have mentioned if they talked to anyone like that.” 

Talltail’s heart sank at once.   
  
“ _But_ ,” Cypress added, much brighter now, “I do know how to get to the park.”


	7. Chapter 7

It was just before dawn when Cypress slipped outside into the garden and met with Talltail. They sat behind the rhododendron that had served as Talltail’s home for the last few days, out of view of the house, and Talltail eagerly crunched down the food he’d brought with him. 

Talltail didn’t like the odd pebbles any better than he did when he first tried them, but he was used to the taste and texture by now and, more than anything, he knew he’d need the energy for the journey. As unpleasant and unnatural as they were, there was a dense richness to the edible gravel—what Cypress called “biscuits”—that Talltail knew would sustain him for a while at least. 

Cypress had already eaten his own meal inside and was now daintily washing his face, but his expression was clouded, a little distant. Talltail wiped stray crumbs from his whiskers and then turned to him. 

“You don’t have to come,” he said, more confident than he felt. “I _can_ follow directions.” 

Cypress jerked out of his reverie, blinking. “What?” he said, then hearing the words, added quickly, “No, I’m looking forward to it! And anyway, I’ll feel better knowing you got where you’re going safely. It can be dangerous out there, especially if you don’t know your way around.” 

Talltail didn’t disagree. Perhaps he should have felt ashamed of allowing a pet cat to lead him to the park, but he didn’t; he wasn’t a warrior now, and this was the territory of limitless enemies. The last few days of resting while his sore paws healed had given him plenty of time to contemplate his situation and the resounding conclusion he had drawn was that it was better to be a little humble and alive, than proud and dead. 

Besides, he’d begun to get to know Cypress, and for a pet, he wasn’t too bad. 

“Seems like something’s on your mind,” said Talltail. 

Cypress flicked his tail, self-conscious. “It’s my human,” he said, peering briefly around the bush to the house. “I just hope he doesn’t worry too much while I’m gone.” 

“You come and go all the time,” Talltail pointed out. 

“I’m always back by night,” said Cypress, and then corrected, “Or morning. I’m always back is the thing, and he’ll worry when I’m not tomorrow. I wish there was some way to leave him a message...” 

“You’ll be back soon,” said Talltail, in an attempt at a soothing voice. He felt out of his depth, trying to comfort a cat about a human’s feelings, but he’d learned that this mattered to Cypress and he didn’t want to anger or offend his guide before they’d even left the yard. “You said it’ll only be a few days’ journey from here to the park. I’m sure he’ll manage without you until then.”

Cypress nodded. “You’re right.” He shook himself, fluffing up his coat, as if to brush away the worried thoughts buzzing around him. “Let’s get going!”

Together they leaped over the garden wall and padded down the street—another one of Cypress’s new words. 

It had been Cypress’s idea to leave during the day, which was something Talltail at first resisted vehemently. It went against all his training—and his instincts—to travel in broad daylight: daytime was the time for rest and relaxation, for lying low and gathering strength. Only when the sun was low in the sky was it sensible to venture out into the world, and it was only skilled and careful warriors seeking unwary birds who would bother to hunt before dusk. 

Night was the best time for cats to be about, Talltail had said, when the darkness sheltered them and brought scurrying prey out of their burrows to be caught. He had only travelled that first day to avoid the other clans—and that was when Cypress had nodded vigorously. 

“Exactly!” he’d replied, looking happy. “If we travel in daylight, the only cats around will be housekeepers, like me. The homeless and feral ones keep out of sight until sunset. They’re afraid of being seen, like you are.” Then he’d paused, flattening his ears a touch in awkward chagrin. “Not that _you’re_ feral.” 

Talltail shrugged it off. “I might as well be,” he’d replied. 

In truth, he didn’t know what he was anymore: not a warrior, that much he was sure of, and he didn’t yet feel like he’d earned the title of wayfarer—not until Pip and the others had accepted him as one. He wouldn’t call himself a rogue, ever—the code still meant something to him, even disgraced as he was--and he would _never_ live with a human.

He was a loner now, he supposed. That was the only thing left. 

Cypress called the skinny, rough-looking cats that slunk around the village “feral,” as apparently did the other pet cats, often somewhere between pejorative and pitying. Talltail was well-aware that, to Cypress, he must have looked just like those cats. 

“Of course, I’m sure _you_ could fight them off,” Cypress had continued, now in that admiring tone he used when talking about Talltail’s warrior past, “but _I_ would prefer not to fight anyone, if it’s all the same to you.”

And like that, Talltail had agreed to travel in daylight. He didn’t particularly want to fight anyone either. 

Cypress was trotting ahead of him now, leading the way. His enormous plume of a tail waved high as he walked, tip bobbing with each step, and Talltail noticed again how quiet the wind was here in the village. With so many houses huddled together, it seemed the wind was blocked out, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to flow as it did across the moor. He had noticed the absence in the garden too, protected as he was by its solid walls. It was disconcerting and, oddly, elating. 

“If we walk a little each day and rest through the nights,” Cypress was saying ahead of him, “your paws will have time to adjust, I think. If they start hurting again, let me know and we can take a break.”

The sun was rising, turning the stone world of the street dappled as a tortoiseshell pelt: the dark grey of house shadows on tar clashed against the vibrant, new-day orange of fresh sunlight glinting on glass and shiny monster skins. 

It made Talltail nervous to walk so openly in view, especially as more monsters woke up with sudden growls and rolled onto the thin thunderpath nearby, but he wouldn’t let himself give into his fear and flee. Not when Cypress trotted ahead of him, so calm and unfazed; Talltail might not have been able to show _more_ courage, but he would not allow himself to show less. 

They journeyed until the sun was high in the sky, until Talltail’s nerves began to tremble. His paws had started aching again as well, so he and Cypress found a spot around the side of a house to sit and plan their next steps. 

Talltail was badly in need of a drink by this point, but he knew better than to ever lap at the water that sometimes pooled at the roadside. Back in Windclan territory, there was always a filmy quality to its surface; the water glistened with peculiar colours and reeked of a heady fume that was almost painful to inhale. There was no way he would trust any puddle he found here and he mentioned this dilemma to Cypress. 

To his surprise, Cypress said, “No problem!” and nipped out of the shade they were sitting in. He glanced around the street and then waved that big plume of his for Talltail to follow. 

He led him to a garden several houses down. It had thick hedges around its edge and long patches of exposed soil, filled with cheery-coloured flowers Talltail didn’t recognise. But that wasn’t as interesting to him as the thing in the middle of the yard. 

Cypress, after checking for dogs and other cats, hopped into the garden and approached the inexplicable object. It was a tiny pond, made of stone, standing atop a trunk with no branches or leaves, clearly also crafted from the same material. Talltail’s mind boggled to look at it. 

Cypress puffed out his chest, seemingly taking Talltail’s wordless staring as a sign of being impressed. 

“You use it like this,” he said, before jumping up to awkwardly balance on the rim of the tiny pond. He lapped at the water. 

“What is it?” Talltail followed Cypress into the yard, cautiously creeping closer to the thing. He knew he must look foolish, flattening himself low like he was, but he was struggling to understand what he was seeing. 

“It’s called a birdbath,” said Cypress, pleased as always to tell Talltail a new word. “Birds bathe in it.”

“Why is it here?” Talltail sniffed at the pale stone. It smelled largely of nothing, smudged with the inevitable scent of humans. 

Cypress hopped down off the birdbath and gave a little shrug. “Humans like birds.” He was twisting his ears about, more wary than Talltail had seen him be before. “Better be quick, though,” he said. “Humans who have birdbaths in their yard _do not_ like cats.”

Talltail leaped onto the rim as Cypress had and lapped at the water. There was no particular taste to it, which was itself very odd, but seemed to be common here. Cypress’s water bowl in his territory had had a similar empty flavour, with faint traces of metal. 

They left the garden quickly after Talltail had finished and trotted down the street a bit further until Talltail noticed a gap under one of the houses, where several stones had been moved away. There was no scent of cat or rat and no sign that humans had recently interfered with the spot, so Cypress and Talltail decided it would be their resting place for the night.

They settled in a patch of sunlight, back enough from the street to feel safe. Cypress began to groom his long fur. 

“I’ll hunt later,” Talltail told Cypress between tending his sore paw pads. “There’s got to be something around here to eat.” 

“I smelled bins before,” said Cypress. “So there’s that too.” He didn’t look thrilled about it.

When Talltail gave him a quizzical look, he explained that feral cats often tipped bins over to get at the scraps of meat that were sometimes put inside. It sounded as unappetizing as eating crowfood from the thunderpath, but Talltail wasn’t about to be picky: any meat was better than none. 

Cypress seemed to guess what he was thinking. “I bet you’re missing rabbits now,” he said, in a clear effort to be jovial. 

“Oh yes,” said Talltail, not bothering to pretend otherwise. 

“I’ve never had one,” said Cypress after a moment. “I’ve had sparrow before, and mouse once. What’s rabbit like?” His green eyes were round with unabashed curiosity. 

Talltail considered. It wasn’t something he’d had to describe. “It depends on the age,” he said eventually. “A big old buck or doe is… a bit coarse. Rich but probably not as rich as you’d imagine, not like your biscuits.” Nothing in the world tasted as strong as those biscuits, Talltail suspected. “But it’s hearty, a bit earthy. Sometimes if they’ve been eating a lot of something, like lavender or bog rosemary, you can even taste that.”

Cypress seemed fascinated, so Talltail continued. 

“A rabbit kit, though,” he said. “They’re always milk-sweet and soft, like eating petals. They don’t taste of anything much otherwise. Yearlings are somewhere between: still soft but with more flavour than the kits.”

There were pangs inside Talltail as he spoke, which as first he assumed was hunger, but on closer inspection, he realised the ache was a kind of grief: thinking about rabbits made him miss the moor and once again he had to grapple with what he had given up. 

Cypress sighed, his own sound of longing. “I wish I could try it,” he said. “Is rabbit your favourite?”

Talltail nearly said yes on reflex, thinking so hard about it as he was--but then he stopped himself, because he realised it wasn’t true. 

“No,” he said. “I think my favourite is mole.”

Cypress quirked his head to the side. “I didn’t know cats could even hunt moles!’ he said. “Do you just wait for them to crawl up out of their holes and pounce on them?”

Talltail shook his head, amused despite himself. “No, moles never surface like that. But my clan has techniques for clawing them up out of the earth. It’s hard work, but no matter what season, a skilled warrior can find one and bring it home.”

Sandnose was that warrior. Talltail was very small last leaf-bare and could only hazily remember the snow, but in one of his clearer memories, Sandnose had returned after a hunt, surrounded by a flurry of snowflakes, carrying a hefty mole in his jaws. He had placed it before Talltail, speaking lowly to Palefeather as Talltail sniffed the still-warm body in delight. He remembered its bizarre naked front paws with its massive splayed claws, each paw seeming as wide as his face; they made him think of wings, which at the time hadn’t occurred to him as odd. 

“Like this,” Sandnose had said, shucking the mole of its plush pelt in a nip of his jaws. “Go on.”

It had been fatty like nothing he’d eaten before, sumptuous and heavy and darkly flavoured, like a mouthful of earth itself--but somehow delicious, faintly salty in a way that made his mouth water. He’d ferociously ripped off another bite before anyone could stop him and he remembered hearing a rare purr of amusement from Palefeather behind him.

At the time, he thought being a warrior would mean he could eat moles every day. 

He explained all this to Cypress, but didn’t mention Sandnose or Palefeather. 

“Amazing,” he said, totally sincere. “What else did you hunt in Windclan?”

They talked for some time on the topic, Cypress asking more and more questions and Talltail, halfway left between feeling flattered by the attention and himself wanting to relive his former life in these little stories of old hunts and hunger.

Windclan ate rabbits, mostly, and birds of all kinds when they could get them. The warriors trained hard to improve their lean, powerful legs, so as to chase down fleeing rabbits in heartbeats or leap high into the air to strike down a passing pigeon or unwary songbird. Only a few creatures were beyond their reach. 

“Ravens,” said Talltail at once. “Too large and too difficult to catch. They can kill a cat with their beaks if they really wanted to. Crows are usually not easy to catch either. When they see us coming, they make a racket and scare everything else away, so we keep our distance from them.”

“Hares?” asked Cypress. “I’ve never seen one, but I’ve heard they can grow as big as dogs!”

Talltail had seen hares, if only a few times before and always in the distance. They occasionally passed through Windclan territory on their unfathomable pilgrimages, not so unlike the wayfarers. 

The last time Talltail had seen one, he had been out hunting alone in the early morning, and saw its unmistakable shape poised and still against the pale sky, half-hidden in the fog of dawn. He had felt it staring back at him and the sensation was unsettling. Although he couldn’t make out its eyes in the mist, he knew how black and shiny they would be, how wild and otherworldly, piercing into him with—some kind of emotion he would not be able to read. 

Then it had loped silently away, leaving Talltail with a prickle along his spine. 

“It’s almost impossible to catch one,” he told Cypress. “Only the greatest warriors can do it. Hare-killer, they’re called. Cats who manage it become clan elders at once and they’re honoured for all time in Windclan legend. Leverets don’t count, of course. But to hunt a full-grown hare… most warriors could only dream of it. That, or a goshawk,” he added as an afterthought. 

“Hawks?” Cypress’s jaw dropped. “You hunt _hawks_?” 

Talltail shook his head. “No, it’s too dangerous,” he said. “But there are stories of cats who did.” 

The best known was Pebblefeather, first of her name. She had been a warrior—it was said—in the time not long after Windclan began, when the clan law was still forming and their traditions were delicate and new. She had been a great and fearless hunter and one leaf-bare, when Windclan were thin as twigs and the warriors were too weak to leave camp, she went alone to the moor. She crawled across the frost-covered ground, a mournful sight, a hind leg dragging a miserable streak in the snow, until a shadow fell across her. 

It circled high above. Then shot towards her—but she was too fast, faster than any cat could possibly be. She streaked from the ground like lightning, leaping from the highest point of the outlook rock and striking the buzzard from the sky. To every cat who saw her leap, she looked like she, too, was flying. 

She killed the enormous bird in one bite and dragged it home to her clan, herself half-dead with the cold. But the clan was saved, the warriors fed enough to hunt again. On that day, she was honoured with a name worthy of her to commemorate her most famous hunt, and was given the title of hawk-killer. And ever since, those deft and artful cats who shared her gift and leaped so lightly that no bird was safe from them were named in dedication to her. 

Talltail recounted this story to Cypress with relish, and only when he had finished did he notice how late in the day it had become already. He had lost track of time.

Cypress’s eyes were shiny with excitement and glee. “That’s incredible,” he said. “One thing, though.” He looked momentarily uncertain. 

“What is it?”

“If she was on the moor alone...” said Cypress slowly. “How does anyone know this story? There was no-one to see it happen.”

Talltail opened his mouth, then shut it again. But before he could answer that that was a good question and he wasn’t sure himself, Cypress’s stomach growled loudly and he looked immediately embarrassed. 

“All this talk of food,” he said by way of explanation. 

“I should hunt,” said Talltail. 

The sun had dipped quite low in the sky, hanging only just above the horizon, and Talltail’s paws were feeling a lot better for the rest. He got to his paws and stretched, feeling muscles and bones shifting into place. 

“I’ll stay here,” said Cypress when Talltail glanced at him. “I’m not very good at it and I don’t want to slow you down.” 

Talltail nodded. He waited until the last rays of sun disappeared and then prowled onto the dark street. 

“Be careful,” he heard Cypress say behind him, “and good luck.”

* * *

They left their hiding place under the house when the sun rose the next morning. Talltail hadn’t had much success with his hunt the night before: he had only found mice. He’d caught a few without much difficulty but Cypress’s warning a few days previous about the poisoned rats made him very uneasy about eating them and, in the end, he and Cypress managed to eat about one each before deciding not to risk it any further.   
  
It was evident that Cypress was finding the scarcity harder. From time to time, his belly rumbled loud enough for Talltail to hear as they padded down the sun-warmed street and he trotted notably slower than he had the day before. To his credit, though, he didn’t complain the way Talltail half-suspected he might, being so used to regular meals and comfort as he was.

If anything, it seemed as though Cypress was talking _more_ today to keep his mind off his pained stomach, because he had been chatting amiably about nothing all morning. But instead of becoming irritated by the noise, Talltail was pleasantly surprised to find himself enjoying Cypress’s one-sided conversation and had started to voice his own thoughts now and then. 

“—and that’s where a real big ugly tabby lives,” he was saying. “I remember he came around near my house once a few moons back because he was after this molly that lived a couple of streets away, but one of _my_ neighbours was courting her at the time, and it was a whole thing, because apparently she had told _him—_ the ugly tabby, I mean—to show up on the same night that my neighbour was, and they had a _huge_ blue right outside her house that was so loud I could hear it from my windowsill and her human went out in a rage and put the hose on them _both_.”

“The hose?” said Talltail.

“Looks like a really long, thin, green worm,” said Cypress, “and spits out a lot of water. They use it on gardens and cars, usually. But _this time_ ,” he said, with a fiendish little glee that Talltail found unexpectedly infectious, “they used it on the cats. And _then_ it turns out that she wasn’t even interested in either of them, because the next time I heard about her, she was off with some skinny feral tom who had hardly any ears left from all the fighting he did. All that because she was bored and wanted to cause a ruckus! Still, I’m not complaining. I don’t like that neighbour much anyway and I _love_ that kind of—oh!”

He stopped in the middle of the path, staring ahead. Talltail looked past him and froze in horror: there was a human only a few lengths away and it had spotted them. 

Talltail’s first instinct was to run, but instead he hesitated. Cypress was frozen beside him and he wasn’t as fast as Talltail—and if they both scrambled for cover without paying attention, they might lose each other in the unfamiliar streets. 

The human approached, mumbling in its strange language, and extended a hand towards Cypress.

Talltail leaped forward without another thought, bristling fiercely. He hissed at the human, arching his back as high as he could, trying to make himself look threatening and dangerous. It seemed to work: the human jerked its hand back in shock, recoiling as if Talltail had scratched it, and took a couple of steps backward, sizing him up. 

Talltail’s blood was on fire with fear and an intoxicating feeling of power, seeing the fright in the human’s uncertain stance. 

_I did that_ , he thought, giddy and proud.

“Go away!” he snarled at it. 

Then Cypress said, “ _What are you doing_?”

Talltail faltered, unwilling to take his eyes from the threat, and then breathed an enormous sigh of relief when the human turned its back on them and began to walk away. 

Cypress shouldered past him.

“What was _that_?” he demanded. Talltail hadn’t seen him look angry before, but now he was puffed up nearly as badly as Talltail—but not, he realised with a sinking feeling, because of the human. “What did you do that for?”

“I was protecting you!” said Talltail, not angry so much as bewildered. 

“From a friendly pat on the head?” said Cypress, goggling at him. “I _like_ those.”

“It was reaching for you!” said Talltail, feeling more stupid with each moment. “I thought it was going to hurt you, so I—just did something. The first thing I thought of.”

“You scared her off, is what you did,” said Cypress. He still looked annoyed, but his fur was settling already. “She wasn’t going to do anything.”

“How do you know that?” said Talltail, trying not to let his embarrassment turn him mean. “It could have--have picked you up and taken you away, or hit you, or thrown you onto the road. Humans don’t make sense, and not all of them like us!”

“I know them better than you,” said Cypress, with such conviction that Talltail felt a little shaken. “I’m not going to tell you how to be a warrior, because I don’t know anything about that. But I understand humans and you don’t,” he said, lifting his chin with pride. “And besides,” he added, with a tinge of smugness, “they do all like me.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. 

“I was only trying to help,” said Talltail. 

Cypress’s expression softened. He glanced around to where the human was disappearing into the distance. 

“No real harm done,” he said, looking back to him. “Everyone’s fine, so… friends?” He tilted his head and Talltail got the sudden, clear impression that Cypress really wanted to make peace with him. 

“Yes,” said Talltail. He raised his tail in goodwill, and so did Cypress. At once, the tension broke and Talltail was immensely glad for it.

Cypress continued down the street, Talltail at his side. 

After a few moments of awkward silence, Cypress spoke again, as if he couldn’t bear the quiet. 

“It was nice you were trying to protect me,” he said. Talltail twitched his ears in embarrassment. “Not that I needed protecting from anything just now, but I appreciated the thought.”

“It was just on reflex,” said Talltail. 

“Oh, I’m sure,” said Cypress. 

Talltail strained his ears for sarcasm or teasing, but couldn’t find any—which meant one of two things: that Cypress was wholly, perhaps _unnaturally_ sincere; or he was being _very_ wry in that moment and had decided to hide it perfectly. Talltail, worryingly, was unable to tell which. 

“What were you saying before, about that ugly tom and the, uh, hose, was it?” said Talltail, trying to steer the conversation back to its previous inanity. 

“Just that they better not show their faces around here,” said Cypress, now clearly enjoying himself, “the tom _or_ the hose, because the scariest warrior from Windclan is here to defend me.”

Talltail was mortified. 

“It’s not that funny,” he said, trying to sound stern even as his own whiskers betrayed him and twitched with amusement. 

“It’s a little bit funny,” said Cypress. “Oh, and speaking of funny, did I tell you about the time—”

In moments, Cypress had returned to regaling some other long story about the local cats and their humans, their petty squabbles and romances, and Talltail relaxed into step beside him, listening with the warm detachment of someone unaffected by the troubles of these strangers but happily coming along for the journey all the same.

And he had been content, he realised later that evening, when they had settled out of sight in an alleyway. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt uncomplicated happiness like that.


	8. Chapter 8

Things had been fine until sun-high the next day. 

The day had even started well. Talltail had caught a pigeon in the grey light of dawn while Cypress watched on, eyes round with curiosity and a flattering amount of admiration. It was the first time either of them had eaten decently since leaving Cypress’ home and they devoured the entire bird in one sitting—even if the meat was, in Talltail’s opinion, stringy and strangely-flavoured compared to what he was used to hunting on the heath. 

Despite his own hunger, Talltail had eaten less than Cypress, although carefully making sure it wasn’t obvious he was doing so: a subtle gesture of gratitude, he had hoped, for the food Cypress had shared several days before. He wasn’t sure if the tom had noticed; if he had, Cypress didn’t mention it. 

The air was cooler and damper that morning than it had been the day before and the sky above was overcast. Hazy grey clouds huddled together and only tiny scraps of bare, dull blue sky could be seen between them, futile beams of sunlight filtering down to the equally grey world below. There was the ominous threat of rain on the distant horizon, but it was hard to know when the water would fall. 

Not wanting to get caught in bad weather if they could help it, the two of them had set off at a brisk pace after washing the last of the pigeon from their jaws. Talltail particularly was beginning to get impatient at the pace of their travel, as reasonable as it was: he wanted to find the park before the rain, because he hoped—perhaps foolishly—that there might still be a lingering trace of the wayfarers there for him to follow. He knew he shouldn’t hope, of course—it would have been at least a moon since the wayfarers passed through the town—but he couldn’t help himself. 

They had not gotten very far, however, before Talltail started to notice Cypress was acting a little odd. His ordinarily cheerful trot had slowed considerably, now a steadier, more measured, but—strangely, he thought, not more _leisurely_ —pace. If anything, Cypress seemed more alert of his surroundings than he had been previously and Talltail sensed in his posture more tension than he had ever seen in him—even when they’d been fleeing from those dogs. His ears twitched more and he glanced around at each new street, as if looking for something. The buoyant, friendly chatter Talltail had come to associate with walking had subsided in fits and bursts to a palpable silence between them, which Cypress attempted gamely to break every now and then—but it was clear his mind was elsewhere.

Despite his growing curiosity and, he admitted grudgingly, concern, Talltail resolved himself not to mention it. More than anything, he didn’t want to embarrass Cypress. He suspected that being so far from his home and his human must have been grating on Cypress’ nerves for days and he sympathised with that, because he too felt raw and uncertain so far from Windclan and the world he knew. He had become more used to the noises and scents of the town at a speed that had actually surprised him, but it was still uncomfortable and longed to find Pip and the others soon. There was an unignorable homesick ache in his stomach and a keenness to get away from houses and return to fields and open woodland and the healthy, growing places he loved best. 

Ahead, he noticed Cypress glance around again and Talltail began to feel slightly afraid. 

He loped a few steps closer to him, turning his own ears, searching for warning signs. 

“Is there a problem?” he asked, keeping his voice cool. His pelt was already prickling from thinking of the wrongness of the village and he didn’t want to give any indication that he’d frightened himself with his own wandering thoughts. 

“Oh, no,” said Cypress. “Everything’s fine.” 

He shot Talltail a friendly glance, and Talltail marvelled for a moment at how bright and clear Cypress could make his eyes, how reassuring and warm he could crinkle them at the corners in a smile that said _it’ll be okay, trust me_.

And he marvelled, because he saw through it. 

He saw the faint traces of fear and panic far deep in the moss-green of those eyes and noted the way Cypress held himself, as though intent to seem as calm and confident as he sounded. 

“We’ll be there soon,” Cypress told him, a touch too chipper. 

He trotted off ahead of Talltail before he could speak again, and Talltail’s stomach lurched. 

A sly voice slithered into his head. _He doesn’t know where he’s going_ , it said. 

At the next road, Cypress hesitated, looking around once more, and this time Talltail watched with a sinking feeling as he realised the voice wasn’t lying. Cypress was trying to hide it, but now it couldn’t be unseen: he couldn’t decide which way they were supposed to go. 

Talltail felt terribly, furiously cold around his heart, like the first snow of leaf-bare had fallen directly onto him, like a pond freezing over despite the sun high above. He stormed after Cypress, hackles rising. 

“I think we should take a break soon and—are you all right?” Cypress was saying, but Talltail ignored him. 

“You’re lost,” he said.

Part of him had foolishly been hoping Cypress would get angry and offended, tell him off for even suggesting it, and lead the rest of the way to the park without faltering. Talltail _wanted_ to be wrong.

Instead, his sudden look of horror told Talltail he’d been right. 

Talltail curled back his lip. “I can’t believe it,” he spat to the concrete. “You don’t know where you are, do you?”

As angry as he felt, Talltail wasn’t naive: he knew the quickening of his heart was fear more than anything else. Panic was setting in as he realised that these days of travel might be wasted, nothing but a silly distraction from his goal, and he didn’t know the town well enough to track back through it and start again. He didn’t even know where he was going in the first place, or how to find the park on his own, and he felt a fresh stab of betrayal as he thought about how Cypress had confidently led him to nowhere.

“Not exactly, no,” said Cypress, “but I—”

“You _said_ you could lead me there,” said Talltail, hoping his fury would hide his disappointment. “I trusted you.”

“I can do it!” said Cypress. His tail was bristling. “I’m just… figuring out the right way.”

“How hard can that be?” Talltail’s ears were flat back and unforgiving as he glowered at Cypress. “You’ve been to the park, so just go the way you went last time. Or tell me and _I’ll_ go. You can go back to your human.”

Cypress’ ears flicked, a sudden burst of nervousness that made Talltail’s stomach drop.

“You _have_ been to the park, haven’t you?” he said, slower now. “You said you—”

“I never said that,” said Cypress. 

Talltail’s jaw fell open. 

“I said I could lead you there, and I _can_ ,” Cypress pressed on, “but I never said I’d been there because that’s… not actually true. As such.”

“As such,” Talltail repeated, tone flat.

“As such,” said Cypress. “I’ve more _heard_ about it. But I do know where it is, and I thought, _I_ want to see it, _you_ need to go there, it could be a bit of fun—and you really needed the help, I could see that, so there was no harm in it, and we’re nearly there now, if I can just—” 

“Is this a game to you?” Talltail’s voice was tight. He lashed his tail, a fierce flick like an adder’s strike.

“No,” said Cypress, looking horrified. “I’ve been trying to help you find your friends.”

Talltail remembered back to Cypress’ admiring glances in the garden, listening enraptured to the stories of Windclan and its warriors. He had made no attempt to hide how delighted and fascinated he had been by Talltail’s youth, his hunts, his training, and his _adventures_ , as Cypress called them. That was what stuck out in Talltail’s mind now: this was an adventure to him, nothing more. 

“A lot of good you’ve been,” snarled Talltail, and even through the furious haze before his eyes, he realised it was a cruel thing to say. Cypress cringed where he stood. “ _I_ did the hunting. _I’m_ the one who can fight. All _you_ had to do was lead us there, and now we’re _lost_.” It felt like heat was rising from his pelt, singeing despite the damp air. 

“I was trying,” said Cypress. He didn’t meet Talltail’s eyes, and when it became clear he wasn’t going to say anything else, Talltail strode past him. He didn’t know where he was going either, but anywhere was better than here. 

Cypress didn’t follow.

  
  
* * *

  
  
Talltail found a spot to shelter under a house and curled around himself for comfort. He felt the same profound sense of being alone as he had when he had finally left Windclan, but somehow this time it stung more than it had then. Perhaps because he hadn’t expected to feel it again so soon after meeting Cypress. 

  
_That’s what you get_ , said a sour voice in his head, _for trusting one of them_.  
  
Talltail buried his nose in his paws, pushing the thought away. Frightened and angry as he felt, he knew it wasn’t true or fair. Cypress might have lied to him—or maybe carefully _not_ lied—and led him astray, but he’d also saved Talltail from dogs, and let him sleep in safety, and even shared his food. 

_I didn’t trust him for no reason_ , he told himself. 

Even so, it was hard not to imagine how the clan might scold him for it. He could clearly picture Sandnose’s disapproving scowl and hear Shrewclaw’s jeering, and wondered if Starclan could see him now and what they thought of his choices. He hadn’t prayed to Starclan since he left the territory of his ancestors, partly because he doubted they would care for a deserter and partly from sheer stubborn will to defy them for the rest of his life, and after all that, he wasn’t about to start calling to the stars for help. 

He was free from them now and whatever destiny they had chosen for him, but it was even more lonely than he had expected. 

His mind full of worry and a strange heartsore longing in his chest, Talltail fell into a fitful sleep. When he awoke some time shortly after moonrise, he couldn’t remember his dreams.

Peering out from under the house, he saw the sky was still dark grey and swirling with future rain and the air felt distantly thunderous against his whiskers. 

Cypress had mentioned that the park was somewhere to the side of sundown, the direction of the black wind. Talltail wasn’t sure how much he trusted in that, but he was restless and there would soon be a storm, judging by the growing pressure above. He didn’t want to spend any longer doing nothing and feeling sorry for himself. 

The streets were empty, lit by the yellow light of towering lamps and spilling from the windows of houses. In the distance, a dog barked, but Talltail was used to it by now. He prowled down the path, keeping closely to the shadows and glancing around occasionally for any sign of where he should go next. 

The enormity of the journey ahead yawned before him, a long dark strip of uncertainty that had felt less scary to walk with Cypress’ talking about nothing at his side. The look of hurt in his eyes when Talltail had snarled at him haunted Talltail as he padded along, a sick feeling of guilt and regret twisting in his belly like a snake. Scared as he had been, he wished he hadn’t said it. 

Above him, he could hear the plinks of moths as they circled the lights and, for a moment, he paused, watching their tiny shadows swirl on the pavement beside him. An old memory, murky and unexpected, rose in his mind.

Sandnose was sitting on the heath, glowering at him, tail tip flicking with impatience and disappointment. They had been out training that day, but Talltail’s attention had been caught by the delicate fluttering of wings some way off—and his father had not been pleased. Talltail could remember wanting to sink away into the earth, vanish from sight and never return, wishing he was different, wishing he could have been what everyone wanted. 

Cypress’ final words before Talltail turned his back rang in his ears: _I was trying_. 

The anger was gone now, turned instead to a cold disappointment in himself. He could hear his own young, despairing voice in Cypress’ words and remembered so clearly how he longed for someone to believe him, and believe _in_ him. 

It wasn’t Cypress’ fault he wasn’t trained to be a warrior. Who had ever been there to teach him to hunt, or fight? Talltail wasn’t even sure if he _had_ any family, apart from the human he lived with and couldn’t really talk to. Perhaps he felt as lonely as Talltail—and now he was lost in an unfamiliar place, abandoned by someone he thought was a friend.

Ahead of him, the street stretched on, pools of yellow light and circling moths. Somewhere through the dark was the park, and the river, and the wayfarers, waiting to welcome him as one of them.

Talltail turned away, facing back the way he’d come. 

He had to find Cypress before the storm began. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Cypress’ scent was everywhere. Talltail had found a recent trail not far from where he had sheltered beforehand, but following it proved more difficult than he had expected. It weaved between houses and streets with seemingly no reason and, more than once, Talltail nearly lost the scent when it leaped over a fence or dipped into a garden Talltail didn’t dare to enter. 

Other scents confused the trail too: mostly leftover smells from the day, dogs and humans walking the paths, but also some more recent marks left by other cats—by far the most concerning of which was the pungent reek of feral toms gouging out territory for themselves once darkness fell. Talltail didn’t trust them not to see Cypress as a threat, so he quickened his pace, almost running along the sidewalk, nose close to the ground and hoping nothing had happened to his friend. 

He turned a corner into another street and his heart dropped. There was an unmistakable scent just ahead, near a strong-smelling freshly marked tree.

There was a small but vivid splash of blood on the stone, and no doubt in Talltail’s mind. Cypress had been here, and he had been hurt. 

Talltail cursed himself and sprinted the rest of the way down the street. Thunder growled beyond the horizon but he didn’t care to listen to its threats, focused instead on following the trail over another fence and further on.

It led him to a garden. It was quite large with overgrown bushes overhanging the fence and several strange little lights scattered between the plants, but Talltail didn’t notice any of these things. 

Cypress was sitting outside the house, looking cheerful and relaxed beside the oldest cat Talltail had ever seen.

Their heads were tilted towards each other, deep in conversation, until suddenly Cypress looked up and saw Talltail standing just outside the gate. 

Talltail hadn’t thought about what he wanted to say when he found Cypress. Part of him had been braced to find the tom lying in the street, bleeding out from hideous wounds, ginger pelt soaked from blood and cold water as rain thundered down and lightning flashed in the dark sky, Talltail too late to save him or apologise.

But now he realised perhaps he was more afraid of _this_ : the mundane terror of asking for forgiveness, and not knowing if he even deserved to ask. 

Talltail slipped between the bars of the fence and padded cautiously towards the pair, gaze respectfully lowered. As much as he wanted to talk to Cypress, the garden was clearly the territory of the old molly and Talltail turned to nod to her before speaking. 

“Hello, I’m—”

“You’re okay!” Cypress leaped down from the veranda to the grass. He looked back over his shoulder at the old cat. “This is him.”

“Welcome,” said the old molly, her eyes half-closed. “Your friend has been telling me about your journey.”

Talltail felt distinctly unbalanced. “Uh,” he said. “Thank you for sharing your territory. I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all,” she said, sitting up. Her movements were stiff but not painful. “Though you might want to leave soon,” she added, glancing up at the dark clouds. “Looks like rain.”

“Thank you,” chirped Cypress. 

“Safe travels,” said the old molly. “Just follow this street to the sunset. It’s not far.” She gestured vaguely with her nose before nodding a farewell to Cypress and Talltail.

Talltail was familiar enough with elders to know when he had been excused and padded silently with Cypress back to the gate and into the street beyond. They stood together under the lamplight, each looking at the other.

There was a moment of hesitation.

“I’m sorry,” said Talltail. 

“It’s okay,” said Cypress.

“It’s not. You’ve been so kind to me, even though I was a stranger and didn’t do anything to deserve it, and then I turned around and said all that to you. It shouldn’t have.”

“You were afraid,” said Cypress, “and disappointed.” He averted his gaze a little. “I shouldn’t have lied.”

“You didn’t,” said Talltail at once. “Not really. You were trying to help me. And I’m grateful.” Distantly, he could hear Heatherstar’s warning in his ears. “It would have been harder alone.”

Cypress looked at him again, expression thoughtful. “Still,” he said. “You weren’t wrong. I can’t do what you do. I’m not a warrior.”

 _Neither am I_ , thought Talltail. _Not anymore_. But he said nothing.

“It hurt what you said,” continued Cypress. Talltail opened his mouth to apologise again, but Cypress wasn’t finished and cut him off with a look. “Maybe because I was thinking it to myself too.” He sighed. “You can do _so_ much. _I_ sleep in a basket.”

“I shouldn’t have said it,” said Talltail firmly. “It was mean and it’s not your fault.”

“But it’s true,” pointed out Cypress. “I _don’t_ really know how to look after myself. Not like you do. I always thought if I left home, I’d probably starve to death, so I’ve never gone very far, even though I’ve always wanted to see more of the world. When you came along, I thought we could both get a chance at what we wanted--I’d see the world, you’d find your friends—but then I realised how little I could actually do. And the one thing I _was_ doing, I was only sort of doing. And you were trusting me and I didn’t want to admit that I wasn’t… entirely sure where I was leading.” 

He flicked an ear, self-conscious, and Talltail’s stomach lurched.

“Your ear!” he said, now staring.

There was a large, fresh split in his left ear, only newly crusting over with blood. Talltail realised at once that it was probably what had left the splatter on the sidewalk.

“What happened?” he demanded. A new wave of guilt was rising in him: he shouldn’t have left Cypress alone. 

“Oh, that,” said Cypress, as if only just remembering the wound. “After you left, I decided _someone_ around here must know where the park is, so I went looking. I don’t really know how to track, so it took a while of wandering about and on the way I kind of ran into a big tom who _really_ wasn’t friendly. He scratched my ear and I only got rid of him by leading him over to a dog’s yard and he got the fright of his life when it jumped up and barked at him right in the face. Then I managed to find this place, and that nice old molly was happy to talk to me for a bit.”

Talltail listened in admiration and mild horror. 

“That was very brave of you,” he said. 

“Lucky, mostly,” said Cypress, but he looked pleased. “I know where the park is now, by the way. Really, this time. Just at the end of this street, she said.”

Talltail looked over his shoulder down the long stripe of road. Then he looked back at Cypress.

“I understand if you want to go home,” he said, cautiously. “I’m sure it’s been hard for you to be away and I know I’ve been… difficult to travel with. But I thought, if you _wanted_ … you could keep me company a little further? If you wanted,” he added again, just in case. “I’d really like it if you did,” he said after another moment. 

“I don’t know the way,” said Cypress. “Obviously,” he added, with a twitch of his long whiskers. 

“Neither do I,” said Talltail. “But we can probably figure it out. A proper adventure.”

Cypress’ pretty green eyes sparkled in the lamplight. “You might have to do a lot of hunting,” he warned. “And tracking. And fighting.”

“That’s okay,” said Talltail, an unexpected purr building in his chest. “I spent my life so far learning how to do that for the whole clan. I don’t mind doing it for one cat. Besides,” he said, feeling suddenly bold, “I was thinking… maybe I could teach you how to hunt.”

“If I wanted?” said Cypress. His tone was light, but Talltail felt as though he was being very subtly teased. He didn’t care.  
  
“Yes,” he said. “Would you?”

Cypress feigned thoughtfulness. “I could be persuaded,” he said after a moment. Then he was serious again. “And you’re sure you want to travel with _me_? I might slow you down.”

“I got this far _because_ of you,” said Talltail. 

“Let’s go then,” said Cypress, looking glad, and Talltail felt a bright glow leap in his heart. “It looks like it’s going to—”

There was a growl of thunder overhead and, finally, rain began to fall. 

“Oh, sure, of course,” said Cypress with a wry look at the dark clouds. Then he bumped his shoulder against Talltail's. “Come on!”

Side by side, becoming soaked by the rain, they sprinted through the darkness together. 


	9. Chapter 9

There was only just enough space for them both under the broad-leaved bush, but Talltail didn’t mind. Cypress’ thick, ruddy fur had repelled the worst of the rain—far more than his own thin pelt—and the fox-like brush of his tail, which was wrapped generously around him, was likely the only thing keeping the chill out of his bones. 

Once they had huddled out of the storm, Talltail had turned his attention to the torn ear, licking away the grime and clotted blood until it bled freely, a bright red against the soft petal-pink skin inside. When the blood clotted again, as already it began to do, it would heal better, he told Cypress; it was something he had learned from Elmface long ago. 

“It’s too bad I can’t find burdock in this,” he said when he was done, gesturing with his nose at the watery dark. “Our medicine cat told me that it’s best for keeping away infection.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” said Cypress. He had winced several times during Talltail’s tending of the spot, but hadn’t complained once. “That’s probably a good sign. That tom must have kept his claws clean.”

“Maybe we can look tomorrow,” replied Talltail, although he was secretly relieved to hear Cypress in such good spirits. A cat with poison in the blood was rarely in a good mood. “If the rain lets up, we might even hunt?” he added, before correcting, “Have a first lesson, anyway. If you’re up to it.” 

There was no need to rush things—or give Cypress the impression his training would begin with immediate success. It hadn’t for Talltail, after all. 

“Oh, I’d like that,” said Cypress, settling down with a wiggle. He closed his eyes contentedly. “What do you usually start hunting, as a young warrior?” 

“It depends on the season,” said Talltail. “Apprentices in Windclan usually hunt field mice, or lizards. Small birds. Sometimes rabbit kits, if you can find them. I’m not sure what lives around here, but we can probably find something. There’s a lot of greenery out there, which will help. Prey will shelter there after a night like this and we can flush them out together.” 

Another roll of thunder growled far above them. Even though the bush’s leaves caught most of the rain, Talltail’s fur still prickled at the noise. 

“You don’t like it much, do you?” Cypress asked him after a moment. He gave him a gentle nudge, an attempt at comfort. “It’s only sound.”

Talltail leaned against his shoulder. The rain continued to shatter down, the sky’s snarl softening away to nothing. 

“On the moor, we went underground in weather like this,” he said. “The entire clan, huddled down in the burrows. We would never even leave camp, if we could avoid it. Not because of the thunder, though.”

He waited, several long heartbeats in silence. He was aware of Cypress’ eyes on him, but he kept his own gaze fixed on the falling rain. 

Then the dark sky changed, split in half by white fire. 

“It was the lightning we were afraid of,” he said. 

Beside him, Cypress shuddered. 

“Ah. I can understand why,” he said in a low voice. “The sound is just the warning.”

A memory stirred for Talltail and he nodded. 

“Thunderclan would be enjoying this weather, of course,” he said. “Every storm is something to celebrate, for them.”

He had been at a gathering as an apprentice when he had first heard it said. A greenleaf storm had been on the horizon that night, the black wind blowing in warm and strong over the floodplain to the great oaks. Reedfeather, the Windclan deputy, had been talking with several Riverclan warriors near to Talltail when Thunderclan had arrived: a stream of large, powerful warriors, coats gleaming in the faltering moonlight, their voices raised in a ringing paean, loud enough to echo the thunder itself. 

“Unbearable as ever, but always at their worst in a storm,” said a light brown Riverclan molly he didn’t know, with a sardonic twitch of her whiskers. 

Reedfeather had looked amused. “Well, you know what they say about it. If you believe that, what is there to fear about a little light?”

“How nice it would be to have the undying confidence of Thunderclan, completely above little things like dangerous weather,” she had replied coolly before turning to another warrior. “What would you do with that, do you think, Pikefang? I think I would sit on a cloud and fly.”

At the time, Talltail hadn’t understood what the warriors meant but Dawnstripe had explained later, one afternoon during one of their fasts. 

“Because of their leader, you mean?” asked Cypress, returning him to the present. 

“In a way,” said Talltail. “They believe only the wicked can die of a storm. My mentor told me that Thunderclan warriors say that lightning is one of Starclan’s most terrible messengers, the kind they will only ever send to strike down the unworthy. And so the virtuous have nothing to fear. They could walk in storms every day and never be touched by anything but the rain.” 

“And you—” Cypress gestured with his nose, to mean all of Windclan “— _don’t_ believe this?”

Talltail regarded him with surprise, then reconsidered. To an outsider, it probably wasn’t obvious what the difference was between the two clans. 

“No,” he said. “Starclan doesn’t punish us.” 

“How do you know?”

“Why would they?” replied Talltail. He could hear Elmface’s voice in his head, calm and certain. “They _were_ us once. They can guide us, and advise us, but we have to live our own lives—even if that means making mistakes, I think. Or doing the wrong thing. I had a hard time believing that when I was younger, because sometimes life seemed so cruel. It felt like Starclan hated me, because how else could things be _so_ bad?”

Cypress hesitated, then put his cheek to Talltail’s. “And now?” he asked. 

“I’m not sure,” Talltail admitted. “I think… sometimes bad things just happen. And good things just happen. And maybe Starclan sees what’s coming, but they don’t punish us for what we do. Not in life, anyway. I was allowed to leave, after all.”

 _I was allowed to find you_ , he thought. 

“Thunderclan seems to believe that Starclan watch us all like goshawks, waiting to strike down the unrighteous and the traitorous,” continued Talltail, shying away from the thought. “But I don’t think that’s true. It’s too… simple. But maybe that’s because I grew up in Windclan,” he conceded. “There, our elders argue about everything under the sun. For every question you could ask, there were at least three different answers, and almost none of them agreed on every detail--or even some of them. After that, I suppose I can’t believe in something as straightforward as Starclan’s unerring judgement delivered by a storm.”

“But the wind?” asked Cypress, gentle and curious. “That’s different somehow?”

Talltail imagined that if any warrior from another clan had asked, he would have been offended or defensive, but Cypress asked with such sincerity and sereneness that he found himself answering in kind.

“In Windclan, they say the difference is interpretation,” he said after a moment to gather his thoughts. “Thunderclan’s Starclan roars and lashes out, leaving corpses in its wake; ours whispers, and leaves us with choices. Starclan’s harbingers are sent to guide us—but in subtle ways that require us to pay attention on purpose. We still need to figure out what they mean and that isn’t always easy. And deciding what to do with the messages we’re sent isn’t easy either.”

Cypress nodded. “Do you… still believe?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I don’t know if I believe that Starclan can speak to us on the wind, or if they would even bother if they could. Part of me still _wants_ to listen to it, and let myself be guided by cats I can’t even see. Another part says I’m foolish for thinking the weather has secrets for me, or anyone else. Especially now. I’m so far from the moor. And I did turn my back on my clan first.” 

“If they’re anything like what you’ve said,” said Cypress, a soft purr rising in his chest, “I think they’d still care about you.”

“Maybe.” 

Talltail still wasn’t sure how much he believed Starclan cared for him to begin with, but Cypress’ warmth was irresistible and he found himself purring as well. It felt strange, sounding awkward and wobbly to his own ears, and, for a brief moment, realising that made him sad. 

“Anyway,” he said after a slight cough to clear his throat. “Whatever Starclan is capable of, I don’t think they are there to solve our problems _for_ us. Other clans can believe what they like.”

Once more, a roll of thunder rumbled through the earth, even louder this time. 

“But _we_ keep our heads down when there’s thunder,” he said solemnly, freshly glad for the shelter below the bush. “Lightning doesn’t care who it strikes.”

  
  
  
* * *

  
  
The sky was still dark with clouds when morning came, but the rain had slowed to a soft grey shower and Talltail was able to explore the park in the dim early light. 

There were no tracks of the wayfarers, or scent marks on the bark or stone, and although he was disappointed, he was not surprised. The rain would have washed every trace away in the night; it had turned the earth under his paws to mud and the entire park smelled of the murky stink of pondwater from the flooded river. 

Despite this, though, Talltail was in good spirits. Now having found the park—and its long, brown river, weaving off into the distance—it would be as simple as following the bank until he finally caught up to the wayfarers. He even managed to find a dazed squirrel, apparently knocked from its drey in the deluge, and brought the limp body back to their shelter just as Cypress was waking up. 

“Just like being at home,” he said sleepily, before baring his fangs in a wide yawn. “Waking up warm and cozy three steps from a fresh meal. That’s what I like.” 

“Do you miss it?” asked Talltail. He had already guessed the answer. 

“Oh yes,” said Cypress as expected. He sat up and scratched behind an ear. “He’s probably worried sick about me, you know. I hope he doesn’t think I’m gone and get another cat.”

Talltail looked at him in astonishment. “Is that something humans do?”

“Sometimes,” said Cypress. “I don’t mind sharing, mind you. Mine loves me, I know that, but it gets lonely, not having anyone to really talk to. But I was there first and I don’t want someone trying to fight me in my own home. I’ve heard of that happening—a new cat moves in and it’s all—” He made a few swipes with his front paws. “— _pfah pfah pfah_ , all day every day, and I’m not interested in fighting just to get to the water bowl, thank you. I’d walk the streets if I wanted to live like that. I’d join a clan!”

Cypress gave a little chuff, glancing at Talltail with a cheeky glint in his eyes. 

“I don’t enjoy fighting much either,” admitted Talltail. He nudged the squirrel towards Cypress, encouraging him to start. “Some warriors, you’d think it’s their reason for being, though. An apprentice I trained with was like that: if he couldn’t solve something by beating someone about the ears, he wasn’t interested. And then one day Pip turns up and— _pfah_.” 

Talltail mimicked Cypress, raking his claws through the air. 

“She gives it right back to him, and I think he was always afraid of her after that,” he finished, the memory sitting warm inside his chest. 

“She sounds great,” he said. 

“Oh, Pip? Yes, the greatest,” said Talltail, earnestly. “She was my only friend for a while. Or at least, the only one I could really talk to. So I know what you mean by feeling lonely.”

They ate together in companionable silence. 

Pip had felt the same back then too, Talltail could remember: she was the youngest of the wayfarers, restless and alone, with no peers to play with until she met him. Like called to like within them, he supposed; each a gangly young cat desperate for someone to really see them, and listen, and care, just for its own sake. 

_An exceptional match_ , said a sinister voice in his head. 

It was what Whiteflower had said, moons ago. Talltail had pushed much of that conversation aside in his mind, unwilling to dwell on it, but one worry still whispered in his ears as he slept: what if Whiteflower was _right_? 

Talltail knew his own feelings enough to love Pip as a most dear friend, who he would journey to the edge of the world for--and he hoped that she felt the same. He had no doubt that the wayfarers _would_ welcome him, when he finally arrived at their leaf-bare territory; his disloyalty to Windclan would mean nothing to them, these cats who wandered wherever they pleased, coming and going as they wished. As long as he hunted for himself and lived peacefully, he would be one of the wayfarers, as much as Betony or the others. 

But Pip’s affection mattered to him. 

And a persistent, fearful thought, which crept quietly over him often in these silent moments, asked: what if she loves you differently than you love her? If she wanted for them what Whiteflower did, what would he do? 

Talltail didn’t know. He knew he was running from that fate as fast as his legs could carry him, and he knew with icy certainty that he did not want the life Whiteflower had described. But if Pip _herself_ —brilliant Pip, bright-eyed Pip, the marvellous, honest cat who felt like a second heart to him—asked for his kits, for their _own_ sake, no elders, no laws, no history to respect… could he say no? Or had he run too far from home to ever say yes, even to her? 

And if he did agree, would that be an act of devotion, or duty? 

“The rain looks like it’s moving on,” said Cypress, breaking the silence. He was just finished washing behind his ears, having discarded the last bones of the squirrel. “Are you ready?” 

Talltail looked into his eyes: green, like Pip’s, full of the same adventurous light. 

Whatever awaited him, he would face it. 

“Let’s go,” he said. 

* * *

The riverwater was dull brown, with murky foam gathering around the occasional broken branch or clump of stones peeking above the surface. It had swollen the banks considerably with the rain and was flowing quite fast; Talltail suspected even Riverclan would avoid swimming on such a day. 

They had been following the curving waterway since that morning, keeping a careful distance from the slippery, damaged mud at its edge. 

Cypress regarded it with continued dislike. 

As they wandered, wet-pawed in the damp grass, he had asked about Riverclan, still in some wonderment that there were cats who not only swam, but enjoyed doing so. 

“If not for that, you would probably fit in there,” Talltail had told him, feeling light-hearted despite the grey sky above. “You’re what they like.”

Cypress’ coat was a deep russet-red, thick and long with darker shades among the hairs like shadows; exactly the kind of unusual, vibrant pelt that Riverclan so often treasured. He was shorter in the leg than Talltail—which was not really worth noting, as nearly every cat was—but well-built in a way Talltail wasn’t: a rounded head with a fine-boned muzzle, a strong chest with a cascade of ruffled fur, and solid legs in good proportion with the rest of him. 

There was a pleasant, plush layer of fat under his pelt too, softening what on Talltail was a cluster of uncomfortable bony points, and that reminded him of Riverclan as well. Their warriors were always better fed than Windclan’s, their fur sleek and lush, their bodies prosperously fattened over supple muscles below. It was hardly any wonder Riverclan was the greatest threat to Thunderclan, and they all knew it. 

“Lazy housekeepers who like to gossip?” Cypress shot him a teasing look. 

Talltail flicked his ear. “ _No_ —well, maybe the gossip part. They’re not friendly to _any_ cat outside the clans, though. I meant how you look. And you’re not lazy,” he added, with an indignation that surprised himself. 

Cypress ignored the comment. “How _do_ I look?” he asked innocently. 

“Oh, well,” said Talltail. “You know. Interesting.” He watched the muddy grass ahead of him. “Handsome. Riverclan are known for being a bit… vain.” 

“ _Riverclan_ thinks I’m handsome?” 

“I think so,” said Talltail, his ears feeling warm. “I mean, I’m sure they would. Your fur is very noticeable. They aren’t much for subtlety.” 

“What about Windclan?” asked Cypress. Talltail got the sense he was enjoying himself, trotting along beside him with his tail high. “ _You’re_ interesting. Do they all look like you?”

Talltail was grateful for the change of topic. 

“Everyone’s different,” he said. “That’s true in every clan, of course. I’m taller than… more or less everyone, I think, but otherwise I don’t think I stand out a lot at a gathering. Big ears,” he added as an afterthought. 

“‘The tall one with the big ears’?” said Cypress. 

“That’s me,” said Talltail. 

“If you stood still long enough, you could probably trick a bird into thinking you’re a tree and landing on you,” said Cypress with an amused purr. 

“I’ve never been very good at standing still,” Talltail admitted, gesturing with his nose to his general predicament: travelling beside the river to places unknown. “Sandnose—my father—has all the patience in the world and can sit beside a molehill as long as you like, but I had no such luck. I was always fidgeting as an apprentice. He was not happy about that.” 

“Bet you’re faster than him, though,” said Cypress with a little shrug. “You can’t be everything.” 

“That’s true.”

“Besides, you’re going to teach me to hunt,” said Cypress, ever-cheerful. “You’re clearly good enough to do that. And you can feel even better about yourself when you see how bad _I_ am at it.”

Talltail shook his head. “No, you’re going to do great,” he said. “It just takes practice and I’m here to help you.” 

He wondered for a brief moment if this was how Dawnstripe had felt about him, this strange combination of protective and hopeful, and suddenly missed her, a pain like a thorn in the paw: sharp and unexpected, buried somewhere soft in him. He hoped she’d forgive him one day. 

By the late afternoon, the sun had appeared, streaming weakly from behind the clouds, and they stopped to rest in its faint warmth next to a thicket. The sounds of a road could be heard somewhere over the swell of a nearby hill, but it was otherwise peaceful and undisturbed among the wild-growing weeds. 

Talltail was just beginning to doze off when Cypress said, “I’ve been curious… why did you leave now?”

Talltail blinked. “What?”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” said Cypress. He had been chewing on a claw and finally pulled the old sheath free, spitting it aside. “The wayfarers pass through your territory every year, you said. So they were going to come back in a few moons. I guess I’ve been wondering why you couldn’t wait until then, when it can be dangerous to travel so far alone. Why—” he flicked his tail, gesturing to their surroundings. “—all this?”

“Oh,” said Talltail. 

“You don’t have to say, if you don’t want to,” added Cypress. “I know it’s personal. But… if you’d _like_ to…” He trailed off. 

Talltail considered his answer. There were several versions of the truth he could tell him, explain all of the things that had gone wrong for him that gathered together over time, but he also knew that underneath it all there was one moment that had finally been too much. It was easier to leave, after that. That was what Cypress was asking to know. 

“There’s a cat in Windclan named Palefeather,” he said, after a few moments. “She’s my mother. But she never wanted to be.”

Talltail realised he had only ever said that aloud once before, to Elmpaw long ago. 

“When I was born,” he continued, “my litter-mate died, which happens sometimes in leaf-bare. I grew up her only kit, but she was not… an attentive queen. I didn’t ever starve and I was never grubby or cold, but she always felt distant. And for a long time, I thought it was because _I_ survived and the other one… didn’t. I tried hard to make it up to her, whatever I was doing wrong, so she wouldn’t be sad. Or disappointed with me. I was clumsy and gawky and distracted a lot, but all the time I was trying.” 

Cypress made a sympathetic noise.

“Then I grew up. I found out that she and Sandnose had been arranged, that I was made for the good of Windclan’s future. That hurt. And the elders wanted the same for me, too. Always thinking ahead.”

“And you didn’t,” said Cypress, a statement, not a question.

“I didn’t,” agreed Talltail. “I decided to join the wayfarers. I was waiting until next greenleaf, like you said. But then Palefeather came forward to make an announcement to the clan.”

His heart ached at the thought, but it was too late to turn back. 

“She was expecting kits, she said,” said Talltail, trying not to sound bitter. “A tom called Sheepfur was the father, not Sandnose. And she was _happy_. I was looking at her and I could see how happy she was, with him, with this new litter, with her future. And I realised: I never had a chance. There was never anything I could have done to change how she felt about me. It was all for nothing.”

He sighed. 

“She did her duty as the elders asked and then moved on, made her own choices,” he said. “Queens are allowed to. But I couldn’t bear to stay any longer after seeing the truth like that. I didn’t want to watch her adore her new kittens when they came, or see how different she was caring about someone who wasn’t me. I think I was right when I was young, thinking she was disappointed I’d lived at all. So I left. There was really very little to stay for.”

“I’m sorry,” said Cypress. 

“I’d always thought that she was distant because that’s who she was,” said Talltail after a pause. “But that was just who she was to me. Somehow that hurt most of all.”

Cypress shuffled closer to him, his warm fur tickling slightly against Talltail’s pelt. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I know nothing can make that feel better, but… _I_ think you’re great. And it doesn’t matter what she thinks.”

After a fraction of hesitation, he pressed his nose against the harsh bone of Talltail’s cheek in a gentle kiss. 

“If she can’t appreciate what’s in front of her, then you were right to leave,” he said, drawing back quickly. There was a hot little anger in his voice that Talltail had never heard before. “She doesn’t deserve to know you. None of them do.” 

Despite the sadness welling up inside him, Talltail found himself purring. “Some of them did,” he said, thinking of Dawnstripe, and Elmface, and even Privetfoot. “And I miss them,” he confessed. 

“Maybe you’ll see them again one day, then,” said Cypress. He carefully tucked his head under Talltail’s chin. 

_Perhaps in the next world_ , thought Talltail, whose heart felt full and breaking all at once. 

There was nothing left to say, so they purred together until sunset, then continued on their way along the riverbank, as the white wind rustled in the reeds.


	10. Chapter 10

They travelled along the riverside through the early night, which was an unexpected relief for Talltail: now that they were away from the houses and roads, it felt safer to return to travelling in darkness, as his instincts preferred. At first, the land beside the river was low—mostly sunken alder carrs, interspersed with sodden and overgrown reeds and the occasional old willow—but by late evening, the wild-looking wet copses gave way to higher ground and, in the distance, the first paddock Talltail had seen since leaving Windclan. 

A wire fence marked the boundary, and beyond it grimy-coloured sheep trundled across the flat land, murmuring to each other between mouthfuls of grass. 

Talltail was delighted by the discovery; it felt as if a memory of home had come to life in front of him, the closest he could be to the moor again. 

“What _are_ they?” asked Cypress, sitting at the fence and peering out at the cloud-like shapes. 

“Sheep,” said Talltail. “The humans keep them.”

“They look… big,” said Cypress, uncertainly. “You didn’t prey on those in Windclan, did you?”

Talltail chuffed at him. “No, of course not, they’re enormous. Not even a whole clan could take one down--not that we’d ever try. But sometimes we gathered the wool they left behind, from the fences and the brambles. It’s good for making a nest warm and dry. Come on.”

He nudged Cypress before slipping under the sharp wire into the paddock. 

“Come on?” said Cypress, looking wide-eyed after him. “ _What_.”

Talltail looked back over his shoulder. “I thought you wanted to learn how to hunt?”

A flicker of excitement wrestled with the stricken look of anxiety on his face. “But…” he said. “ _They’re_ in there.”

“They’ll leave us be,” Talltail reassured him. “A big field like this is sure to have some mice. It’s a perfect starting place for you.” Seeing the fearful flattening of Cypress’ ears, he added, “I’ll keep watch. You’ll be safe. I promise.”

Cypress stepped under the wire to join him. 

“All right,” he said, standing close to Talltail’s side. “How do I do this?”

* * *

They started with the basics: posture, paw placement, reading the scents and currents of the wind. 

“You want to keep low enough to be hard to see,” said Talltail, sitting up on a small rock he’d found, “but keep your ears up and whiskers forward so you can pick up on anything ahead of you.” 

Cypress shifted, pressing himself even lower. The late leaf-fall grass was shorter than was ideal for hiding, but the effort was still enough to break up his shape in the shadowy evening. 

“You always want the wind in your favour,” continued Talltail, reminding himself strongly of Dawnstripe: he could remember these lessons from her almost word-for-word. “Which way is it blowing in from?”

“That way,” replied Cypress, pointing with his nose. 

Talltail nodded. “We call that the blue wind.” 

_Methodical_ , Dawnstripe had instructed him. _Tenacious_. _Wind for the intelligent and steadfast_.   
  
“As much as possible,” continued Talltail, “you want to be facing _into_ the wind when you hunt, because that will hide your scent from your quarry and bring their scent to you. It’s not strong tonight, so it won’t matter much, but it’s good to keep in mind for future hunts.” 

Cypress prowled a few steps forward, practicing keeping his weight light on the ends of his toes. He was still new-apprentice clumsy, too heavy in his stance, too tentative in his steps, but it was already a promising start. 

“The main thing is to remember that our prey is often more sensitive to touch than we are,” said Talltail. “Scent and sight matter, but so does keeping our movement soft on the ground. A mouse will _feel_ us coming well before it smells us if we’re not careful. Rabbits and lizards too.”

Cypress slumped onto the grass. “This is difficult,” he mumbled against the earth. 

Talltail hopped down off the stone. “You’re doing really well,” he said. He assumed a hunting crouch where Cypress could see, making sure to show how he carried his weight in his haunches rather than his paws. “It takes practice to begin with but soon you’ll do it without thinking.” 

Cypress pulled himself up and imitated him again, doing his best to balance his weight as Talltail was showing him. 

“Good!” said Talltail. “Now try to keep that stance as you stalk.”

They practiced into the night, until well after moonhigh. The shiny slot-shaped eyes of the sheep watched them from afar, their low rumbling the only sound in the otherwise peaceful dark. 

Eventually, Cypress headed further afield to try hunting prey in earnest, and Talltail relaxed in the grass, enjoying the gentle breeze in his fur. He himself would hunt when dawn came, if Cypress was unsuccessful, but for now, he waited, feeling more at home than he had since leaving the moor. 

Above him, the sky was half grey with moonlit clouds, the remainder of the storm from the previous night. Between each sheep-coloured blot, countless stars sparkled down on him, but for a change, Talltail wasn’t worried by this: it felt good and right, teaching Cypress just as Dawnstripe had taught him, in this place that reminded him of the heath. Even though it was only in his imagination, he felt a glimmer of pride as he pictured the thousand cats of Starclan watching approvingly as he followed in her pawsteps—however wrongly he may have travelled the path that led him here and away from the clan. 

Privetfoot’s mentor—whoever she was, Talltail had never thought to ask, and now felt a moment of sorrow for it—would be in Starclan, perhaps even watching him. Privetfoot had said that once a cat was your apprentice, they were your apprentice for life, and now Talltail, lying in the cool grass and returning the gaze of the stars, wondered idly how far back through time that love and loyalty lasted. Would it last _beyond_ life? Would Privetfoot’s mentor, who he had never met, care for Dawnstripe, and care for him in turn? And would _her_ mentor, with her in the night sky, care for them all below? He had no answer. 

It was strange to him how distant he felt from Windclan now, too; and there was pleasure in it, which surprised him. It was not pleasure that he was distant from the land itself, or his mentor, or his friend, for these things still lanced him with pain when he thought of them, but that everything that seemed so huge and important at the time had dwindled to nearly nothing. The enormous fearful tree that had cast its shadow over him every day had become a tiny withered sapling on the horizon, barely strong enough not to snap in the faintest breeze. 

And that was distance, he thought. That was what Starclan had, that so often the living didn’t. He could remember arguing with Elmface as apprentices, resenting the trust he was asked to place in wisdom passed down from those gone before. He understood it a little better now, feeling for himself the freedom it gifted him, the clarity he was beginning to find as he considered the shards of memory he still carried with him.

Sandnose in his memory was a massive cat: powerful and broad and imposing, always looking down his nose in disdain. But Talltail had outgrown him long ago, he realised; and with new eyes, he regarded the sullen, too-proud tom who once loomed over him with resentment, and with pity. He saw clearly what he had never realised before: how afraid he was to be wrong or doubtful, how much he longed for respect, how much he needed Talltail to be a flattering reflection of himself—a likeness like that in a pond. 

And Talltail felt, briefly, sorry for him, because it was never going to happen. 

For the first time, Talltail wondered what he would say if their places were traded: would he expect Sandnose to run over the moor, swift as a swallow in flight, and berate him if he couldn’t? Would he instruct him how to recall every hymn in perfect form, and sneer at him if he couldn’t remember the words? 

_No_ , thought Talltail. Not even intentionally could he be vengeful. There was too much of Dawnstripe’s gentleness in him for that. 

He lay in the grass as the clouds slowly drifted across the sky and the low breeze shifted from blue to green around him, a world at peaceful pre-dawn rest--until a rustling nearby announced the return of Cypress. 

He was bounding through the paddock under partial moonlight, a mouse swinging from his jaws. Even so many lengths away, Talltail could see the joy radiating from him and it made his heart feel as bright as the sun, the loudest possible light there could ever be. 

He could never be unhappy again, he thought. He would always have this to keep with him. 

* * *

The following night they travelled again, after sleeping the day away under a bramble awaiting leaf-bare, its leaves rust-red and gold, vivid against dark stems. Already some of the trees they passed as they padded by the river were half-skeletal, their long bare branches looking like crooked bones under the moonlight, reminding Talltail of the hardship to come when the season changed. 

The snowbringer breathed at their backs, a delicate cold tingle along the spine, but Cypress seemed not to notice at all. He was as cheerful as ever, still delighting in his success the previous night and eagerly looking forward to another chance to practice. 

“I think I want rabbit first,” he was saying, high-stepping beside Talltail. They had been discussing the reserve Pip had promised the river would lead to, and Cypress had turned the conversation to food. “You can catch it for me,” he added with a playful toss of his head, as if granting Talltail a great honour. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since you told me what they’re like.”

“I don’t know if there’ll be a lot of rabbits,” said Talltail, a little doubtful. “It sounds like it’s mostly forest there.”

“Then a hare!”

Talltail snorted. “I’ll never catch one of them,” he said. “And they don’t like forests much either.”

“A first for even Windclan’s fiercest warrior,” said Cypress, “the rare forest hare. Never seen before.”

“You’re ridiculous,” said Talltail flatly, even as his whiskers twitched with amusement. 

“Are you saying there’s _not_ a forest hare?” said Cypress, squinting at him in mischief. 

“I am.” 

“Ah!” said Cypress, like a kitten pouncing on a tail. “But you can’t, you see? You just haven’t seen one— _yet_. It might be out there. You’ll never know until you see it. And until then, I’m not wrong.”

“I could very well tell _you_ to go find one and prove it exists,” pointed out Talltail. 

“Oh, you could,” agreed Cypress, bumping shoulders with him affectionately. “But we both know I’m not much of a hunter, so that’s not really a surprise if I come back with nothing, is it?”

Talltail rolled his eyes, humming a soft dissent. He was not going to win this argument, so he changed tactics. With a sudden leap, he pounced upon Cypress, gently cuffing him with his hind feet as they tumbled together into a ditch. Cypress boxed him back, half-breathless and purring. 

“Can’t defend yourself?” taunted Cypress. “I thought all of Windclan are clever talkers?”

“I’m trying the Thunderclan approach,” said Talltail, dropping the whole weight of his body onto Cypress, who went _ufft_ under him. “It’s called _eat my paw_.”

They wrestled for a moment before Talltail careened away through the wood, Cypress scrambling after him. He could hear his heavy paws cracking twigs and dry leaves some way behind as they sprang over arching tree roots and skidded around the sprawls of brambles. 

Talltail flew past the trees, alive with the exhilarating feeling of speed: paws light and barely touching the ground, ears and tail streaming behind him in a breeze all his own. 

“Talltail!” shouted Cypress, sounding much further back than he’d thought. “You should see this!”

Heart fluttering, Talltail whipped around and loped back towards the sound of Cypress’ voice. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, when he spotted the vivid ginger of his pelt standing on the bank some way distant. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” He gestured across the river as Talltail approached. “Look.”

He followed Cypress’ gaze. The opposite bank looked much the same as the side they were standing on. There were a few birch and hazel trees with several blackthorn shrubs clustered between them, and beyond that—

“It’s there,” said Cypress, still sounding a little winded. “The reserve. That’s it, right?”

There was something tall and silvery some way back, glinting in the light of the moon. 

They both padded to the edge of the bank. The river stretched before them, a silent serpent of gleaming water. They exchanged a look.

“Maybe we just wait until it freezes?” said Cypress hopefully. 

“That could be moons from now,” said Talltail, “if ever. And it doesn’t seem like there’s a way around.” 

Cypress grimaced. 

Talltail didn’t like their options either. At least the current had slowed, the water sitting lower on the banks than it had after the storm. It was still concerningly wide, though, even broader than the one that marked the border between Riverclan and the moor. 

Cypress touched the surface of the water with a single paw, retracting it back at once. 

“Oh, it’s cold,” he said, disgusted but not surprised. He glanced to Talltail. “Do we really have to?”

“Riverclan manage it,” he replied, mostly to himself. “How hard can it be?”

He put one paw into the river. His fur stood on end. 

“It’s fine,” he gritted out between clenched teeth. Cypress didn’t look convinced. 

Talltail forced his other front paw into the water, despite his protesting body and generations of Windclan instinct. He stepped deeper, the painful chill of it almost at his belly. 

“The sooner we swim, the sooner we’re on the other side,” Talltail called back, trying to sound more confident than he felt. The cold of it was seeping into all four of his legs as he padded forward, paws already numb against the mud and stone that lined the bank. 

Behind him, he could hear Cypress dithering on the water’s edge, unable to commit to putting in even a single paw. 

“Cypress!” Talltail called. “You can do it. Come on, isn’t this what adventures are made of?”

Talltail felt strangely breathless as the icy water pulled his chest below the surface. He stood on the very tips of his toes, unwilling to kick away from solid ground just yet. The other bank seemed as far away as the horizon. 

“You go,” said Cypress, sounding somehow further away. “I’ll catch up.” 

Talltail wanted to wait, to make their way across side-by-side, but he also knew the longer he stayed in this deathly cold water, the more exhausted his muscles would become, the weaker his body, and he had a whole river to swim. 

He kicked off from the ground, plunging his paws into empty space. Each paw racked through the water, feeling nothing, touching nothing, and his body slithered through the water, like a snake through the grass, like a swift on the wind. 

It was hard work—far harder than running, which came as a shock. But as he panted and gasped, craning to keep his head above water, it occurred to him that this is how flying would be: running against the wind, far from the security of solid earth, and probably just as cold. The part of him revolting against being in the water relaxed at that thought, finding it easier to imagine running through the night sky than being submerged.

There was a loud splash some way behind him, as Cypress took a flying leap into the river.

A great rush of warm energy pulsed through Talltail as he heard the splashing and garbled cursing behind; he hadn’t realised how afraid he had been that Cypress would choose not to follow him, and the powerful relief now flooding through him urged him faster through the dark water, until the opposite bank was well within sight. 

“Not far now,” Talltail managed to choke out, as much for himself as it was for Cypress. 

His paw brushed stone below and with a final surge of effort, he scrambled up the muddy bank through the rushes and onto the wonderful stillness of the stable ground. 

He lay panting there for a moment, his muscles both oddly numb and aching with the strain and sudden biting cold of the night air on his soaked fur. Then he forced himself up enough to watch for Cypress. 

He was further out than Talltail had hoped, but still splashing fiercely through the water. It was clear that he was terrified—more scared than even Talltail had been—but he was focused, churning the dark water and foam with deliberate, aggressive strokes with each leg. 

Talltail called out to him, encouraging, even though he was fairly sure Cypress couldn’t hear a thing, ears full of water and probably his own thundering heartbeat. 

“Almost there,” said Talltail as Cypress drew closer, leaping to his paws and pushing past the rushes again to stand at the very edge of the river. When he came into range, Talltail half-dragged him up onto the bank by the scruff, both of them dripping and filthy with mud. 

Cypress coughed up some water, and lay still. 

Talltail nudged him.

“I’ve never been more tired in my life,” murmured Cypress, his eyes closed. 

“We have to keep going,” said Talltail.

They were both soaked to the skin and shivering and Talltail knew that this cold was at least as dangerous as the river itself: if they weren’t able to get warm again soon, they would be in trouble. Warriors who got caught in blizzards were always warned: _don’t stop walking_. Sleep was not a friend in the harsh leaf-bare; it was a quiet way to join the ancestors too soon. 

“The fence is near,” said Talltail, nudging him again. He used his sharp nose and jaw to start leveraging Cypress to his paws. “Once we’re on the other side, we can hunt and find somewhere to shelter. It won’t be far,” he promised, even though he knew it might not be one he could keep. 

Cypress roughly pulled himself up, still breathing quite heavily. “Okay,” he said. “Lead the way, mighty warrior.”

Talltail didn’t say anything. He wasn’t a warrior—not anymore, not ever again—but in that moment, he was proud that he had been, if only for a season. 

Cypress leaned against his side as they walked, and Talltail found in himself strength he didn’t know he had, bearing up even though his own bones felt like icicles and his muscle burned. Despite his own immense tiredness, there felt like there was no other option but to stand firm and keep going; he had to, for Cypress. It was like a duty, but where thoughts of duty had once weighed him down, this feeling filled him with fire and fearlessness. He moved them both forward, to the towering silver webbing of the high fence and then further along, following its base. 

It really did look like a shining spiderweb, he thought. Just like Pip had said. It was far too tall to climb, especially exhausted as they were, but Talltail knew that sometimes foxes back on the farm near the moor managed to find their way into henhouses through holes in the wire and he hoped that somewhere there would be a rip in the webbing enough for them to squeeze their way in. That, or find a tree tall and overhanging enough for them to climb and leap over. 

“That was brave,” he said to Cypress, jostling him awake with a bony shoulder. “I think Riverclan would change their mind on housekeepers for you.”

Cypress could barely purr from exhaustion, but tried anyway. 

“I’m not really trying to impress _them_ ,” he said. 

Before Talltail could say that he was already impressed with Cypress several times over, a glint in the moonlight ahead caught his eye. As he had hoped, there was a buckle in the crisscrossed wires and a patch of dirt that had been disturbed as something had scrabbled its way through the break.

“There!” he said, elated. 

They inspected the rip in the fence and Talltail was relieved to notice that Cypress would fit through without trouble; with his fur so wet, he already looked much smaller than usual, and at the end of the day, he was still a cat--there were few spaces small enough to stop someone who was determined. 

“You first,” said Talltail. 

Cypress didn’t argue and wriggled his way into the reserve at once, leaving only a few clumps of red fur on the wire. Talltail slipped through after him, careful not to let his ears catch and tear on the sharp silvery points. 

Even though the other side of the fence looked exactly the same as the riverside, Talltail felt an anticipatory hush come over him as he stepped within the reserve. Not far away, the first proper clusters of woodland trees created darker shadows at their roots, pockets of night hidden from the moon, and beyond them, the forest truly started. Graceful ash trees towered above thickets of hazel and blackthorn, with bursts of bright red dogwood branches growing profusely between them all.

It reminded him of Thunderclan’s territory, and that thought made him hesitate. He was as unused to travelling in woodland as he’d been travelling through the town—but that had turned out all right, he reminded himself, and this would too. They had each other. 

“Can you keep going?” asked Talltail, even though they both knew there was no other choice.

“I can manage,” replied Cypress. “Where now?”

Talltail sized up the forest ahead of them. The branches high overhead rustled with the breeze, whispering secrets to each other. 

“This way,” said Talltail and stepped into the starless dark of the forest. 

* * *

It was hard to tell time in the shadows of the trees. Where Talltail could usually look up and see the sky, there were only branches, creaking and swaying, and where he could usually know where he was by the ever-moving breath of the wind, he now felt untethered. The breeze that moved the canopy was a stranger to him, as without a horizon or the stars or any of the world he recognised, it was almost impossible to tell its colour or from where it heralded. 

He kept his attention to the earth and the low-growing plant life, and it was discomforting how unfamiliar it was to the open space of the fields and moorland.  
  
He and Cypress had been trying to warm up their blood by walking, waiting for their coats to dry more before finding somewhere to curl up and rest. Talltail knew that if they dared to sleep with their pelts sodden and cold, they would risk a chill—and there would be no medicine cat to save them from the fever that followed. He only hoped it was not too late, and that the illness had not already set in. 

Every now and then, a faint scent of cat came their way, a brush against a dying fern or a trace upon the breeze. Never enough to track and nothing particularly fresh or recognisable, but it gave Talltail hope that the wayfarers wouldn’t be too far away. Even so, he kept his ears sharply pricked, turning this way and that at the slightest sound. The reserve was clearly an enormous territory and Pip had never mentioned anything about what—or who—the wayfarers shared it with, so it seemed best to keep on guard. 

Neither he nor Cypress spoke as they prowled. They were both deeply weary and half-weak from hunger, and hoping to come across prey of any kind. 

They were padding silently past a spindle bush, when Cypress bristled. 

“What’s—” said Talltail.

There was a blur of white fur beside him, leaping from the spindle at high speed. Talltail hit the ground with a meaty thud. There was a furious screech from Cypress and suddenly he was tackling the stranger, the two of them rolling over the leaflitter in a frenzy.

Even with his nose now full of dirt and the earthy smell of decaying leaves, Talltail recognised the scent at once—he could have recognised it anywhere—and he scrambled to get to his paws before either hurt the other.

“Pip! _Stop_!” he shouted before throwing himself bodily into the fray and pulling Cypress back out of harm’s way. He stopped swinging his paws at once and Talltail let go of him, looking to her instead. “He’s a friend.” 

Pip was standing nearby, her spine arched, her fur on end. She stared at him; he stared back. 

Then she sprang at him again, alight with joy, and he bounded to meet her, all fear and cold forgotten. 

“You’re here!” she was saying. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay? Is Windclan okay? You’re so _big_ now!”

“So are you!” 

Talltail had expected her to be grown too, but hadn’t considered what that might mean. She was lean and wild-looking, with an adult frame and several new scratch-scars over her pelt. Her muscles were no longer developing, but fully grown: hard and practiced under her ginger-and-white pelt. Her eyes were just the same, though: pale and bright and cheerful. 

“I followed your directions,” he said, by way of an explanation. He would tell her everything, but not right now. “I want to join you. The wayfarers, I mean. If you’ll have me?”

“ _Of course_ we’ll have you,” she said at once, bumping cheeks with him so firmly it hurt. “Everyone’s going to be so excited to see you, it’s been so long— _oh_ , you’d be a warrior now, aren’t you?”

“Talltail,” he said with a nod. 

She slammed his side with hers, nearly knocking him off his paws. “That’s great! I can’t believe you’re here. I’ve missed you so much, you know.” 

“I missed you too,” said Talltail, with feeling. 

Pip shook her pelt. “Ugh, why are you all wet? Did you--Talltail, did you _swim across the river_?” She looked aghast. 

“I had to get across—” he began. 

“There’s a fallen tree,” she said, horrified. “Just follow the river a bit that way and you’ll get to it. Did you really just swim across that river to get here?” 

“You didn’t tell me that!” said Talltail. “I thought you all swam across.”

“Wait until everyone hears about this!” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “They’re going to be amazed. Is there _anything_ you can’t do, Talltail?”

“Well,” he said primly, trying to settle his ruffled fur, “I haven’t managed flying yet.”

“Oh, give it a season and I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” she teased.

Then Pip caught sight of Cypress, who was standing awkwardly a few lengths away. “Sorry,” she said brightly. “I hope I didn’t cuff you too bad. You surprised me, jumping on me like that with your claws out!”

Cypress shrugged. “Same to you. I thought you were some feral molly trying to chase us off. I didn’t realise you were a friend.”

“Definitely a friend,” she said. “And a friend of Talltail’s is a friend of mine. But I am definitely a feral molly too,” she added with a playful scrunch of her nose, “so I don’t blame you.”

Talltail felt suddenly ashamed: in his excitement, he’d completely forgotten Cypress. 

“Sorry,” he said to Cypress as well, before turning back to Pip. “It’s actually because of him that I was able to find you,” he added, feeling a strange kind of pride. “I would never have made it through the village without him to guide me to the park. He left his home just to get me here safely, so I owe him very much.”

Once he would have felt humiliated to admit that, but not anymore. 

“Pip,” said Talltail, a delighted warmth growing in his chest, “please meet Cypress.”

“ _Uh_ ,” said Cypress.

“Cypress,” said Talltail, looking to him, “please meet Pip! I’m so glad you’ll finally get to know each… other…”

Cypress was looking back at _him_ , not Pip, with a strange expression. His ears had flattened down at the mention of his name and when Talltail glanced her way, he saw Pip’s tail was kinked in discomfort and uncertainty as she looked between them, as if she were feeling out of place in the conversation.

Talltail got the distinct impression that he had somehow said the wrong thing, but didn’t have the faintest inkling of what it might be. 

“I—” he began, not knowing what to say.

“You both look like skeletons, rattling there so skinny,” said Pip with significant force. “Come on, I’ll lead you to our camp before you freeze to death. You’re in need of a few meals and some warm bodies to sit with.” 

Without waiting for a reply, she tossed her head for them to follow and prowled off the way she’d come. 

Cypress gave Talltail a complicated look, some part dismayed, some part pitying, and then followed after Pip without another word. 

Talltail stood stunned for a few moments, unsure of what had happened. He didn’t seem to be in trouble—not really—but there was a sour, unhappy feeling rising in his stomach, and the joy of reuniting with Pip again felt a lot less simple now. 

He followed them under the spindle branches, tail held low. 


End file.
